


Between Midnight and Dawn

by The_She_Devil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Choking, Domestic Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Language, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stucky Big Bang 2017, Substance Abuse, Torture, Vomiting, threat of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_She_Devil/pseuds/The_She_Devil
Summary: After a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission gone bad, Bucky is left with no memory of the past year, which includes his and Steve’s divorce. Steve, who has never really gotten over his ex-husband, is left to navigate the fine line between helping and hindering Bucky’s recovery while trying to protect himself. At the same time, both men are fighting to uncover the truth of Bucky’s disappearance, what was done to him, and why.





	Between Midnight and Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to my beta, [Hannah](http://i-would-slay-all.tumblr.com/) who is the most wonderful, insightful, charming beta and cheerleader!
> 
> Another huge thank you to my artist [Fowly](https://linguastrata.tumblr.com/), who put so much effort and attention to detail in her work. I am so grateful and honored!
> 
> And thank you to all the lovely people in the SBB chat. We lost our sanity over the summer, but at least we all did it together! <3
> 
> Name inspired by T.S. Elliot's "The Dry Salvages"

 

_ Lying awake, calculating the future, _

_ Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel _

_ And piece together the past and the future, _

_ Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception, _

_ The future futureless, before the morning watch _

_ When time stops and time is never ending; _

_ And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning, _

_ Clangs _

_ The bell. _

_ \--  _ T.S. Elliot, “The Dry Salvages”

* * *

  


* * *

 

He knew it was going to be bad when Natasha came to his office doorway, looking worse for wear with dark circles under her eyes, hair mussed, and a few new bruises, stark purples and reds against porcelain skin. However, it wasn’t her appearance that immediately sent Steve into a tailspin of anxiety – after all, being a field agent of S.H.I.E.L.D was oftentimes quite dirty business, especially when one was as as elite a spy and as formidable a soldier as Natasha.

What worried him was that her usually cool demeanor, reliable even when buildings were literally falling down around her, was betrayed by the hard set of her jaw and the line of worry between her furrowed brows.

She would have only come there for one thing.

“Tell me,” he said, standing up from his desk so fast his chair nearly toppled over behind him.

“He went M.I.A. six weeks ago.”

Steve’s mouth dropped open, his breath leaving him all at once in a shock of terror that quickly turned to outrage. He understood that this was a government intelligence agency, that everything was shared on a strictly need-to-know basis, and while he may have been the Senior Intelligence Collection Analyst, he was still a desk agent; once the information left his hands, he wasn’t privy to what happened out in the field, just the intelligence gained from it. Still, perhaps someone could have said something, oh, he didn’t know, maybe  _ six weeks ago? _

He drew a breath to express his anger, but before he could say anything, she steamrolled right over him.

“We found him. He’s at Walter Reed. He’s…” she trailed off, faltering only briefly before her expression set into a hard determination; something she didn’t want to do, but was steeling herself to. “He’s asking for you.”

In a burst of motion, he was heading past her and for the door, not having the wherewithal to be offended. She grabbed his arm so fast and with such strength he nearly tripped forward, turning back to her with part incredulity and anger at her stopping him, part frightened at why.

“He’s in bad shape, Steve,” she told him, then glanced away so quickly he might not have caught the flash of guilt in her eyes if he didn’t know her so well. When she turned back, her face was carefully blank. “He was tortured. There was some kind of…traumatic brain injury. He doesn’t remember – ” She let out a huff of frustration. “He doesn’t – ” She did it again.

“Natasha, what is it?” he nearly yelled, unable to help it, voice strained with fear. His heart was hammering; he couldn’t imagine what she was trying to tell him.

“He thinks you’re still together.”

He stumbled back, her grip on his arm the only thing stopping him from falling over.

A year. It had been an entire year since he’d come home to their apartment in Brooklyn after another late night at the agency and found all of Bucky’s things gone without so much as a by-your-leave.

A year since Bucky had stepped into Steve’s office afterwards wearing that sharp charcoal suit that accentuated the long lines of his body and brought out his arctic blue eyes, speaking with Steve in impersonal, clipped tones as if they were debriefing in the boardroom after a mission, as if they were nothing more than coworkers, than strangers, as if they’d never been married.

A year since Bucky had handed him the divorce papers, neatly typed out by a lawyer Steve hadn’t known existed, telling Steve they were going to be professional about this, that they were going to leave their personal lives at home, that they weren’t going to make it awkward for anyone at work, or for each other.

“You should have your own lawyer look it over,” Bucky had said, as if Steve even had a lawyer, Steve nodding along dumbly from his desk all the while.

A year since Steve had asked for a manila file from across the table during a pre-mission meeting, saying, “Thanks, Buck,” after Bucky handed it to him, and Bucky had corrected him, almost offhandedly, eyes still on the papers in front of him: “James. Please.”

A year. Gone.

If there was any horror he could have ever imagined, it certainly wouldn’t have been that.

* * *

When Steve had been a boy, his asthma and allergies had often left him watching from the sidelines as other children rough housed and ran around outside and participated in sports, unable to keep up without collapsing into a fit of coughing or wheezing. Sure, he had friends who weren’t interested in physical activities, so while he wasn’t lonely, and was satisfied with the friendships he did have, there was always a part of him observing the other children from his periphery having fun in the parks and football fields with a longing ache in his chest he could never quite tamp down.

Once his mother had graduated nursing school and gotten a job at a hospital nearby, with good pay and good health insurance, Steve had finally, after a few years of trial and error, found a combination of medications that allowed him to be as active as he liked, so long as he was diligent in taking his medications every day and always carried his rescue inhaler.

He couldn’t wait to play sports, but there were a few issues he now had to consider with his newfound health: he was too small to be a football player, too short for basketball, there was no local soccer league to be found, and baseball was  _ bo-ring _ . There was, however, a track team at his high school, and there was nothing more Steve loved doing with his newfound pulmonary freedom than to run.

Even now, ten years after graduating high school, he still loved his daily runs, and was on one when he met his closest friend. He’d been temporarily transferred down to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in Washington D.C. for what was supposed to have been a month-long intelligence briefing, which turned into two months, then somehow six. Leaving Bucky behind had been hard, staying in touch made difficult by both of their work duties, and after a couple months Steve had been terribly lonely. With that and the stress of his assignment, his daily runs were the only release he had, and the scenery was nice around the National Mall.

There was no greater joy Steve found than being underestimated, whether it was his quickness in a back alley brawl or the grace in which he passed a struggling jogger on a run. That jogger just happened to be Sam Wilson, who he eventually ran into again after running another lap, the man sitting beneath a tree cooling down when Steve approached.

“Need a medic?” Steve inquired innocently.

“I need a new set of lungs,” the man had replied, the collar of his shirt lined with sweat.

“You could try one of these,” Steve offered, presenting his rescue inhaler from the pocket of his sweatpants, and while Steve had honestly been trying to be a little shit – the chip on his shoulder perhaps getting away with him – Sam had a sunnier sense of humor greater than any other man Steve had ever known and took it in stride, grinning wide and bright, and they’d been friends ever since.

They were standing beside each other now in a hallway of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, just outside of a private hospital room looking through the glass window of the door, solemn and silent. His friend had dropped everything to make the short drive over from where he still lived in Washington, D.C. after receiving Steve’s frantic phone call from the plane.

James was lying there just beyond the door on the bed, bandages wrapped around his head, white gauze seeping through with red at his temples on either side. His entire face was one giant bruise, two puffy black eyes, broken nose taped up, his lip split in several places. His left arm was completely bandaged from beneath his hospital gown all the way down to his fingertips, more blood staining the dressings, and Steve wondered how many of his fingers had been broken, how many nails he still had left. His right side seemed to be unscathed, except for the raw, broken skin around his wrist that must’ve been from a restraint.

God, it hurt just to look at him. Steve had brought his laptop with the intent to peruse the mission files on his way in – now declassified to the intelligence analyst – but had been too upset to even consider looking over James’ medical files. He didn’t need to read any files, however, to know what exactly had happened to the man; the methods of torture always remained the same regardless of the adversary.

“Do you think this is a bad idea?” Steve asked quietly, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

“No.”

“Natasha said it was a bad idea.”

“Man, you know she’s just looking out for him,” Sam stated. He shrugged. “Terms of the divorce.”

Steve sighed. It was true, that when Steve and James had been together – back when James was still Bucky – the four of them had been almost inseparable. Natasha had spent her days at Steve and Bucky’s apartment in the city when she wasn’t out in the field, or her nights with them at various bars and events. Whenever Sam had been in town, he’d been right there with them, or any three of them would stay at Sam’s home in when they were at the D.C. office for an assignment.

There had been other friends, like Natasha’s on again/off again boyfriend Clint, another field agent; or Tony Stark of Stark Industries (who Natasha met God-knew-how) and his wife Pepper; and their friend, a scientist named Bruce Banner, but through it all their core four remained the same. The Fantastic Four, as Sam put it.

After Steve and Bucky’s separation, allegiances had been formed as they often do in such situations, and through unspoken agreement, Steve got Sam, and Bucky got Natasha, and that was that.

“Do you really think he needs protection from me?” Steve asked, devastated at the thought. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

More hurt than he already was, lying there bruised and broken and confused.

“For the record,” Sam said, gently, “it’s not him I’m worried about. You need to protect yourself.”

“From him?” Steve balked, turning to his friend. “Sam, this isn’t his fault! Look at him. He was – he’s been – ” Steve exhaled sharply, tears pricking his eyes. James didn’t deserve to be left adrift, no matter how much he’d hurt Steve in the past, no matter how much Steve still hurt, every day. “God, I can’t…I can’t just leave him like this.”

“I know, Steve,” he replied, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder and offering a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just saying. Be careful.”

“Okay.” Steve took a deep, calming breath, steeling himself, and then he was stepping forward and pushing the door open, moving into the room quietly. The only sounds were Steve’s footfalls and the soft, electric hum of the machines monitoring James’ vital signs, the periodic expansion and release of the blood pressure cuff on his arm. Steve sat down in the chair beside the bed, hands gripping the bed’s guardrails tightly, knuckles white, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

Afraid.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off of the bandages, the bruises, each visual sweep revealing something new and awful. Sitting close to James’ right side, it was easy to spot the injection wounds trailing up his wrist to the elbow of his unbandaged arm; small pinpricks from needles that had been filled with God-knew-what. Jesus Christ. James must have been so scared, in so much pain and so disoriented, but he was so strong and so brave, and he’d made it out alive. Thank God he was alive.

“Steve…” James murmured, head tilting slightly towards him. Steve sucked in a startled breath.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he said quietly, then realized James’ eyes were still closed, swollen shut from the bruising. “How did you know it was me? Can you even see me?”

“I’d know your smell anywhere,” he replied weakly.

Steve huffed a watery laugh. “I don’t know whether or not to be offended.”

“Nah,” James assured him. “It’s nice…all I could think about, when I was in the hole…how good you’d smell when I got out.”

Before Steve could figure out what to say, James’ trembling hand found his, fingers slowly wrapping themselves around Steve’s and clutching weakly.

“They told me I wouldn’t see you again,” James told him softly. “Tried to make me forget…I could never forget you.”

Steve pressed his free hand to his mouth, fighting back the sob attempting to escape his throat. Because they  _ had  _ made James forget him; forget the moment James had decided to walk out the door and leave their life behind, forget the months they’d spent apart awkwardly relearning how to work together until they’d found some semblance of civility that had almost finally turned friendly, forget the life James had been rebuilding alone without Steve.

God, and wasn’t James dating someone in the office? The leader of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team James and Natasha were a part of? Steve remembered hearing the rumors, the twisting stab of pain in his chest when he saw them talking in hushed tones in the hallway. Brock Rumlow, tall and handsome and charming and everything Steve wasn’t, fingertips trailing down James’ side and down over his ass, butterfly light and just as fast so no one would see if they weren’t looking, and James, smiling crookedly, that heat in his eyes that used to only be reserved for Steve.

Jesus Christ, what a mess. This was a mess. What was Steve supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

He never imagined it could possibly get worse, before James asked, “Hey, where’s your ring?” He was holding Steve’s left hand, fingertips tracing his ring finger. “Those jackoffs took mine…I asked for it but pararescue said I wasn’t wearing it when they got me out.”

“James,” Steve finally choked out, at a loss more than he’d ever been. James’ bruised face twisted into confusion at Steve’s unexpected use of his first name. “I don’t…we don’t wear our rings anymore.”

“What?”

“You had some brain trauma,” Steve said, stomach knotting with dread. “You don’t remember but…we aren’t together anymore.”

“What are you talking about, Stevie?” James asked, Steve’s heart lurching at the endearment he hadn’t heard in more than a year.

“James – ”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he demanded, the heart monitor speeding up in time with his breaths. “Where’s your ring?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve breathed, voice barely a whisper. He slipped his hand from James’, who quickly reached for him but wasn’t fast enough in his weakened state; Steve nearly fell out of his chair in his attempt to scramble away, the sound of wood scraping the floor loud and offensive in the quiet of the room.

“Steve?” James called, voice small and scared. “Steve, wait. I don’t understand.”

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, backing away towards the door, his chest tightening, breaths stuck in his throat.

“Steve!”

He had to leave. He had to get out of there; the walls were closing in on him. “You’ll remember in a few days. It’ll come back to you, and you’ll – we’ll – I – I’m sorry.”

“Steve! Wait!  _ Steve!” _

James was still reaching for him as he fled the room, calling his name again and again and again.

* * *

He was gasping into a garbage can in the bathroom down the hall, hands clutching the rim tightly as he fought the bile rising up the back of his throat at the same time as he was struggling to suck in air. His heart was pounding, face pale, shirt sticking to his back in a cold sweat.

“Steve. Buddy,” he heard, Sam’s voice calm and firm. “You need to breathe.”

Steve nodded, taking a deep breath, Sam’s hand warm and soothing as it rubbed up and down his back. He pulled his rescue inhaler out of his pants’ pocket – although he doubted this was an asthma attack – inhaling a metered dose and holding his breath for the appropriate amount of seconds before exhaling slowly. Closing his eyes, he lowered the inhaler to his side, straightened up and leaned back against one of the sinks.

“You all right?” Sam asked gently, and Steve nodded. He opened his eyes to find Sam watching him, eyes wary and expression unreadable. “What happens now?”

Steve opened his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to find an answer. He shrugged, holding out his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Look,” Sam said, before licking his lips and letting out a deep breath. “Maybe you should just step back for a minute and process this. Come back to my place, let’s have a beer, and we’ll go from there.”

“What else is there to do?” Steve asked, bemused.

“Steve,” Sam said, and now he was using that tone that meant there was something he was missing, something he should’ve seen and Sam was disappointed that he hadn’t. “You can’t just do him like that and leave.”

“Do him like what?” Steve demanded incredulously. “Sam, he’s confused! It’ll come back to him, the doctors said this is common after a brain injury. It’s better he knows the truth now than for me to – to do what? What else is there to do? What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” his friend admitted quietly, gaze directed to the floor, then went on, too carefully choosing his words: “I just think…I know what happened between you guys, and I know it was hard, but…maybe you could have handled it a little bit…differently.”

When Sam looked up again, there was sympathy in his eyes, sorrow, but it wasn’t for Steve. He realized with a shock that struck him as unforgiving as a slap to the face that it was for James, a shock that quickly turned into a horrifying, unwavering certainty that in James’ hour of need, instead of comforting him or reassuring him or being gentle with him, Steve had chosen to hurt the man he’d once called his husband, the man he would die for, the man he still, impossibly, loved.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed, pressing both hands to cover his face before trailing his fingers down to his mouth, saying through them, “Natasha was right. Oh, my God.”

It was at that moment the men’s room door slammed open, the metal door handle crashing into the wall so hard the tile cracked. Both Steve and Sam startled at the sudden movement and noise, unknowingly whirling around towards the oncoming warpath.

Natasha stood there, her small frame taking up the entire room, body coiled tight and vibrating with fury. Her face held a terrorizing expression Steve imagined was mostly saved for suicide bombers or child murderers or members of Hydra – or men who had hurt her best friend, maybe her only friend.

She approached fast and furiously, nearly shoving Sam out of the way to get to Steve. With a raise of her hand, Steve flinched back, anticipating violence, but she only pointed one elegant, deadly finger in his face.

“Whatever it is you  _ think _ happened between you and James,” she began, voice low and dangerous, “he didn’t deserve this.”

Steve nodded frantically, heart pounding hummingbird fast in his chest. “I know, I know – ”

“He was so hysterical they had to  _ sedate _ him, Rogers,” she went on, and Steve gasped in horror. “He just spent six weeks being tortured and experimented on in a fucking cave in Afghanistan, and you think it’s best to torture him some more when he finally gets home?”

“No!” he cried, wanting to say more, to say anything that would make this right, but she cut him off at the quick.

“Don’t you ever go near him again,” she stated, with a finality that bore no argument. She waited for him to nod before lowering her finger, examining him with a calculating gaze and an almost predatory tilt to her head.

“Sam,” she greeted, without taking her eyes off of Steve.

“Ma’am,” he replied meekly.

Then she turned and strode confidently from the room, footfalls silent and hips swaying as if she hadn’t just threatened Steve’s very existence in front of God and country and Sam and the man hurriedly exiting the last stall of toilets that Steve hadn’t realized was there until this very moment. They awkwardly waited for the man to wash his hands faster than what was probably recommended in a hospital, shuffling out of the way of the paper towel dispenser but the man left without drying his hands.

Steve visibly deflated as soon as the door was closed, puffing out a breath before he turned back to the sink. He closed his eyes against the hot sting of tears, gripping the porcelain tightly with both hands as if to keep his rapidly slipping grip on reality.

“Steve,” Sam tried quietly, but Steve shook his head.

“Take me back to the airport,” he managed to say through the lump in his throat.

“If that’s what you want,” his friend said, implying not to let Natasha or anybody bully him into leaving, but Natasha was right, and Sam had already said Steve should have handled it better, he couldn’t unsay it now just because Steve had had his ass handed to him.

“I just want to go home,” Steve stated with defeat, then straightened up, taking a deep breath but unable to look himself in the eyes in the mirror. He wasn’t sure he ever would be able to again.

* * *

He spent his wait in the airport and the entire flight back to New York poring over the mission details on his laptop. He was still upset nearly to the point of distraction, but he owed it to James to pull as much intelligence from the mission as possible, to figure out what had gone wrong, why he’d been taken, and – most importantly – by whom.

It seemed like a simple enough mission: rescue hostages aboard S.H.I.E.L.D. vessel Lemurian Star, located in the Indian Ocean, from pirates led by Georges Batroc, a former member of France’s external intelligence agency and now one of Interpol’s most wanted, who was demanding one and a half billion dollars in exchange for the hostages. Ninety three minutes later, the S.T.R.I.K.E. team, lead by Brock Rumlow, had been dispatched to retake command of the ship.

The team had managed to extract the hostages and kill most of the pirates, but from the communication transcripts, Natasha had not appeared at the rendezvous site and hadn’t been responding to any communications, her communicator either malfunctioning or turned off. Brock had tasked James with seeking her out while the rest of the team dealt with the hostages, fully aware there were still hostiles inside. From there, James had met with Batroc and a fight had ensued, until James finally managed to knock Batroc down and keep him down. At that moment, supposedly James’ comm had then malfunctioned as well, unable to be interpreted.

Then came the explosion; a grenade heard by the S.T.R.I.K.E. team on deck and – according to Natasha – thrown by Batroc. Natasha had fought her way back to the team, Batroc had escaped along with several other pirates, and James couldn’t be found, even after the ship had been cleared.

They thought he’d been thrown overboard, his body lost to the sea. Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D., hadn’t wanted James’ death released to the public until Batroc could be apprehended, insisting news of a soldier’s demise at the hands of a terrorist could spark public outrage and drive the former French agent further underground.

By some miracle, six weeks later, a group of soldiers in Afghanistan working on a tip from a local informant about an injured American, found James in the home of a poor Afghani family who had been caring for him to the best of their ability. Their young son had found him in the desert, delirious and half-dead, but it wasn’t clear whether James had escaped or been dumped.

Steve closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat and allowing himself a few moments to thank God for the Afghani family that couldn’t leave a man to die in the desert, even with the risks in taking an unknown American into their home during wartime.

Letting out a shaky breath, he wiped his eyes, pushed away his relief and gratitude, and forced himself to focus on the glaring questions:

Why had Rumlow sent in James without backup? What had Natasha been doing? Why had she turned her comm off? Who had taken James, and how did he end up in Afghanistan?

He needed to get his hands on the communication recordings. He had a feeling once he started unspooling that thread, most of his other answers would be easier to find. He’d put in his requisition first thing in the morning.

* * *

To say that the environment at work was tense would be an understatement.

Steve’s and James’ relationship had not been a secret. Nearly half the office had been invited to the wedding, witnessed Steve and James exchange vows among the cherry blossoms of the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, gotten drunk at the reception in the atrium on shots of Natasha’s homemade infused Russian vodka, and danced until their clothes stuck to their bodies with sweat, high heeled shoes abandoned beneath dinner tables strung with men’s suit jackets and ties.

Now that it was known throughout the office that James had been held captive and safely returned, it was as if the entire working force at S.H.I.E.L.D. had no idea how to not be awkward around Steve. It was their divorce all over again. Should they say something? Should they not? Should they just pretend it was another working day? Did Steve even care? Did he care too much?

It wasn’t like Steve didn’t know what they thought of him anyway, like he didn’t know they felt sorry for a skinny little nerd like him losing such a gorgeous, intelligent catch like James Barnes. Like he didn’t know they thought Steve would never do better, or that they hadn’t ever known what James was doing with a shrimp like him in the first place, when he could have had anyone in the entire world.

Worse, was the thought that James had only been with Steve to make himself feel better, because it was always the most good looking, charming ones that were the most insecure, and how else was James supposed to validate himself without someone worshipping him at his feet and acknowledging how lucky they were to have a man like him every day? Poor Steve, didn’t he know he was being used at the cost of stroking James’ ego?

Steve scoffed at the idea. As if James had ever been anything other than the kindest, most thoughtful, standup guy Steve had ever met. He would never use anyone for his own gain, despite how many times it had delayed him promotions and robbed him of recognition in the world of office politics.

And, sure, maybe Steve had had a little bit of stars in his eyes whenever James (who Steve had internally – and perhaps juvenilely in his schoolboy crush – nicknamed James Bond) had come into his office to deliver information, smiling rakishly and with one hundred and ten percent swagger, but Steve had heard the unmistakeable tremor in his voice when James had asked him out for a drink that first time, fidgeting restlessly and talking a mile a minute, unable to meet Steve’s eye, boyishly nervous and devastatingly endearing. Steve had been so surprised he hadn’t even known what was happening, wondering why super soldier James Barnes was having some kind of meltdown right in Steve’s office, and maybe he should call someone?

But James had said, “I’m trying to ask you out for a drink here, Steve. Show some mercy on me and say yes so I can shut my damn fool mouth.”

And Steve had stood there speechless for about five seconds before grinning, face aflame with a blush, saying, “Yeah, okay.”

Meanwhile, Natasha, while not often seen around the office, wasn’t even acknowledging Steve’s existence when they passed each other in the hall or the cafe downstairs or, more infuriatingly, during meetings. Only once did she interact with him, delivering information gathered from a recent mission, simply stating, “Here,” as she threw a USB drive from the doorway and walked away before Steve could scramble up from where it had bounced out of his hand and landed on the floor.

He was still waiting for his request for the communication recording from the Lemurian Star mission to be fulfilled, and with Natasha not talking to him, his frustrations were only growing by the minute. Feeling useless, he at least wanted to know how James was doing, but if there was any way to find out, he certainly wasn’t going to get the information out of Natasha, and he was too ashamed by his own behavior at the hospital to ask Sam to do his dirty work for him.

The only other person he thought would know anything would be James’ current boyfriend, Brock Rumlow. Almost always in post-mission debriefings with the S.T.R.I.K.E. team, Steve had several opportunities in the weeks following James’ hospitalization to ask the man how James was doing, whether or not he needed anything, but Steve couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out a way to start that conversation. Once, he’d almost worked up the nerve, lagging behind after a meeting, but Natasha had glared daggers at him until he’d left the room, leaving her and Brock alone.

Today, Director Fury, who also often sat in on the S.T.R.I.K.E. team debriefings, called Natasha away directly after the meeting, leaving Steve and Brock alone. Gathering up his things from the table, Steve casually asked, “Any update on James?”

Brock didn’t look up from his seat, where he was typing into his phone. “He’s still in the hospital. Hasn’t even started the I.D.E.S. process so I can’t say when he’ll be back, if they’ll even let him. You need something filled out or something?”

I.D.E.S., the Integrated Disability Evaluation System, was used to determine if military members could return to service after being wounded. It was a long process that could take up to a year, starting only after service members were referred to the program once they were finished with medical treatment, as long as they didn’t meet medical retention standards.

“No, I…” Steve began, then let out a breath, admitting quietly, “I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

“He’s still in the hospital,” Brock repeated, then grinned at something on his phone.

Steve rolled his eyes; the S.T.R.I.K.E. team leader sure wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “But how is he  _ doing?” _

Finally, Brock looked up from his phone, meeting Steve’s eye from across the table. Something seemed to dawn on him then, and he leaned back with a furrowed brow, pensive. Steve shifted beneath his gaze, feeling uncomfortable and unexpectedly chilled.

“You know I can’t disclose his medical history,” Brock stated, in an almost satisfying tone with one corner of his lips quirked up in a near smirk.

“No, I know,” Steve replied, shaking his head. Christ, he hoped he hadn’t offended him, came across like some kind of jealous ex. “I just know…I thought…with your relationship, you’d know how he was doing, and I just wanted to know if he was okay. I don’t mean to overstep.”

“Our relationship,” the other man deadpanned, then glanced down at his phone again and shook his head. Abruptly, he stood, stuffing his phone into his pocket and leveling Steve with a stare. “We aren’t like that. You know Buck,” he said, and the way he uttered James’ nickname made something vile coil in Steve’s gut. “He’s fine for a good time, but not really relationship material. I mean, you’d know better than anyone, right?”

Steve was suddenly, breathlessly angry, hardly able to contain the rage boiling in his veins. He clenched his jaw as hard as his fists, crushing his paperwork in his hands.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed, and Brock, implausibly, laughed.

“Come on, Stevie, don’t be like that,” he soothed, heading for the door with hands held up in surrender. Steve bristled at the endearment, demeaning coming from Brock’s mouth. “He knew it wasn’t serious. It’s not like I strung him around for years before leaving him in the lurch.”

_ “Rumlow.” _

The S.T.R.I.K.E. team leader paused in the doorway at the warning tone, considering. “Look, I’m going to tell you this as a friend. Bucky was pretty clear about how things ended between you two. He moved on, okay? You don’t want it to look a certain way around here, asking questions about your ex. People will talk, and I don’t think Buck would appreciate it either.” Brock rapped twice on the doorframe in parting. “See you around.”

Just like that, Steve deflated, his anger leaving him in a woosh of air that left him feeling shaky and unmoored. He leaned back in his chair heavily, releasing his ruined papers from his grip and smoothing them down with trembling fingertips, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

Brock might’ve been a dick and trying to get his digs in, but he’d succeeded in driving his point home: James wasn’t his to ask after anymore, and he needed to let it go. Steve and James weren’t even friends, just coworkers now, and it was obvious James had moved on. The fact that James had even pursued a romantic relationship, even if it hadn’t been serious, proved it.

Although it did wound him deeply to think about James talking to Brock late into the night over drinks or perhaps in bed about Steve and how he’d left him and why, something that wasn’t even clear to Steve.

Here Steve had been on exactly one date with a friend Sam had set him up with, a lawyer named Matt who Sam knew through someone that knew someone. Sam had warned him the guy was blind, but Matt had been incredibly capable – and incredibly attractive. Very nice, if not a little intense, who worked pro bono with his best friend in Hell’s Kitchen.

Steve could hardly concentrate on the conversation, the guilt at feeling like he was betraying James gnawing away at him the entire dinner. Over dessert, when Matt had asked if Steve wanted to continue the night over drinks at a bar he often frequented, a hopeful, crooked smile on his face that reminded him way too much of James, Steve had opened his mouth to politely decline…and instead promptly burst into tears, admitting he wasn’t yet over his ex-husband and making a complete fool out of himself while his date sat startled across the table. Matt’s soothing tones and comforting words had only added to Steve’s horrifying embarrassment.

Presently, Steve dropped his head onto the conference table with a dull thud, arms draped over the table around him.

“You’re pathetic, Rogers,” he mumbled dejectedly into his paperwork. He just needed to stop acting like a heartbroken loser and get on with his life. James had left Steve behind – literally – a long time ago; it was time for Steve to take the initiative and do the same, and move on to a life without James Buchanan Barnes.

“Agent Rogers,” came from the doorway, and Steve raised his head to see Darcy Lewis, Fury’s administrative assistant. She crossed the room and slipped a piece of paper across the table towards him. “Your request for the Lemurian Star intel was denied.”

“What?” Steve nearly shouted, shooting out of his chair as he angrily snatched his requisition off the table. “Denied? Why?”

Darcy shrugged, looking startled. “I don’t know. Jeeze, don’t shoot the messenger. Take it up with Fury.”

“Where is he?” he asked, quickly stuffing his things into his shoulder bag.

“He’s actually out for the rest of the day,” she replied, and he tipped his head back and groaned at the ceiling. She offered him a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry, Rogers. Look, it’s Friday. Just head home and have a drink or something, okay? I’ll make sure to track him down for you on Monday.”

“Yeah, thanks, Darcy,” he responded, scrubbing his face with his hands. A stiff drink sounded about right. Or maybe five or ten. Anything to help him forget his absolute mess of a life.

* * *

Steve cracked an eye open, wincing against the spear of sunlight shining through the blinds and right into his face, wondering who in God’s name was banging so obnoxiously on his door at – he pulled the alarm clock closer, squinting through his hangover – Jesus Christ, nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.

He groaned into his pillow, closing his eyes tightly and willing the interloper to go away. It was silent for one blessed moment, until the knocking restarted, this time louder and harder than before.

“All right!” he hollered, throwing the covers back and stomping down the hallway. He didn’t bother putting on a robe, just strode to the door barefoot and in his pajamas, not checking who was there before angrily unlocking the door and pulling it open. Rookie mistake.

James was standing there, hand raised to knock again, wearing a rumpled shirt and threadbare jeans, looking as if he hadn’t slept in days. His left arm was in a sling, hand still bandaged with gauze and medical tape from where it peeked out of his long-sleeved shirt. The bruises on his face were faded to dark purples and sickly yellow hues, some of it disguised with days worth of rough stubble. His hair was longer than Steve had ever seen it, messy in a way that indicated how many times James had run his fingers through it, an anxious habit he’d always had even when it was at its shortest. The worst part about him was his eyes, still that same steel blue, but haunted and searching, bright with fear and desperation.

“James,” Steve breathed, and the other man still flinched at the unfamiliar sound of his proper name coming out of Steve’s mouth. It seemed to shake something out of him, and instead of looking lost, he suddenly looked determined, his mouth setting into a hard line, a line forming between his brow, body poised and ready for a fight. The gestures were so familiar, so stunning, Steve’s heart ached at the sight of it, perhaps more blindsided by James’ next words than he would’ve been if he hadn’t been so distracted.

“Why did you leave me?” he blurted, and Steve was so shocked he stumbled backwards, his grip on the doorknob the only thing keeping him upright.

“What?” he asked, voice cracking in a falsetto alto.

“I can’t remember, and Natasha won’t tell me,” James stated mulishly, folding his arms over his chest, almost indignant. “She said I had to ask you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, wondering how much more difficult Natasha could possibly make his life, even in absentia. “Would you come in here? I’m not having this conversation on my front doorstep, and I haven’t even had any coffee yet.”

“No coffee yet?” James asked in a teasing tone, raising his eyebrows. “How are you even coherent?”

“Don’t,” Steve warned, pointing one long finger. “You can come inside, and we can talk about this, but don’t…just don’t.”

James raised his hands in surrender, silently conceding while simultaneously looking like a kicked puppy. Steve opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow him access and ignoring the guilt at that look that had always worked on him. The other man stepped into Steve’s apartment – the apartment they’d shared for four years until James had moved out – and Steve watched him from the kitchen as his eyes quickly absorbed everything that had changed and everything that had stayed the same.

All of their pictures were gone, replaced with art or nothing at all, empty spaces where Steve and Bucky’s smiling faces used to be. James tore his gaze away from the walls and took in the sight of the half empty whiskey bottle on the table, an empty tumbler beside it. He moved on and ran his fingers over the new armchair Steve had replaced James’ favorite worn in chair with, the same chair James had sat curled up in many nights, poring over reports or studying dossiers or just reading his science fiction novels, that same endearing look of concentration on his face no matter what the material.

James had taken that chair with him when he’d left; Steve hadn’t been able to stand the sight of the empty space, thinking a new chair would remedy the dull ache, but glancing over at it from the couch and finding it empty had only added to his longing.

“It looks weird in my place,” James said quietly, turning to face Steve, who was standing dumbly at the edge of the living room holding two cups of coffee. “The chair. Everything looks weird in my place. I can’t – ” He cleared his throat, covering the break in his voice. “I can’t sleep, I can’t – I can’t be there. I’ve never…” He trailed off, laughing humorlessly as he gave a rueful shake of his head. “I’ve never been there before.”

Steve sighed with sympathy, crossing the room and placing the coffee cups on the table, planting himself all the way at the end of the couch and indicating for James to sit. The other man carefully perched on the end of the armchair, muscles obviously still stiff, and Steve had to fight the urge to help him. Once settled down, James grabbed his mug and took a sip, either not noticing or choosing not to comment that Steve had made it the way James had always taken it, even though Steve had no idea whether or not James still drank his coffee with one sugar and a little milk.

“Can you tell me what you remember?” Steve asked first, figuring that was the best place as any to start.

James frowned, gaze trailing off as he searched for the answer. He licked his lips, before drawing in his bottom lip and worrying at it between his teeth, brow furrowed with thought. “I remember the wedding.”

God. What a place to start. Steve drew in a calming breath, willing patience and tamping down a rise of anxiety.

“I remember…I remember the honeymoon in Nice,” he went on, and Steve was overwhelmed with images of their hotel on the French Riviera; of white rumpled sheets and the sound of breaking waves, of pink wine and smooth rocks on the beach, of freshly baked bread every morning and dessert after dinner every night, of the curves and planes of James’ body, sleep warm and sinfully solid beneath him, above him, the gold glint of a wedding band catching his eye in the setting sun.

“I remember missions,” James went on, and Steve blinked back to reality. “I remember that night me, you, and Sam got really drunk and tried to climb the Lincoln Memorial. We bet a – we bet a bottle of eighty-year-old scotch on who could get up there first, and the – and the – ”

“And the park ranger nearly caught Sam,” Steve supplied, smiling, vividly remembering running down the side of the Reflecting Pool, James right behind him. Sam, having darted to the opposite side of the water, ran like lightning with the park ranger hot on his heels. Steve hadn’t thought of that night in forever. It was probably one of the last good memories he had of their marriage before everything had started falling apart.

“It’d been raining.” 

“You ended up in the mud,” Steve laughed.

“Ruined my new fucking sneakers!” James was grinning in a way Steve hadn’t seen since even before their divorce, eyes brightly lit with amusement, body relaxed. Just as suddenly, the mood shifted, James losing his smile and lost in thought once again. “I remember your promotion. I remember missing you…but you didn’t go anywhere? Did you?”

Steve swallowed thickly, shaking his head as he blinked back the stinging in his eyes. No, he hadn’t gone anywhere, just deeper into the bowels of the S.H.I.E.L.D. building, longer nights spent analysing and interpreting data, meetings with Fury and the Secretary of the World Security Council, Alexander Pierce. It wasn’t like James hadn’t been busy with his own career, traipsing across the world on top secret missions, spending his downtime at the gym or out with his S.T.R.I.K.E. team buddies, Steve coming home late at night to an empty apartment or to find James already in bed, sleeping off a hangover.

“So what happened?” James asked quietly, staring down into his coffee. His gaze rose to meet Steve’s, eyes shining with sadness and longing and, damn it, Steve couldn’t do this. “Why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t…” Steve began, then cleared his throat when his voice gave out. “I didn’t leave you, James. You left me.”

“What?” James asked, straightening in his seat. He looked away, trying to find a memory that wasn’t there, before turning back to Steve with a pleading expression. “Why would I do that? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replied helplessly. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I just came home one night and all of your things were gone.”

“What?” James asked again, barely audible, the shock of it written plainly on his face. “Steve, I’m…I’m sorry, I – ”

“No,” Steve cut him off, harshly. “Don’t. You’re apologizing for something you don’t even know you’re sorry for.” James shook his head, disbelieving, horrified, and Steve took pity on him, trying to say something that would make James feel better but was also true. Well, almost true. “Look, it was a year ago, okay? I’m fine. I’m over it.”

“You’re over it,” James repeated numbly, then scoffed softly. “Of course you are. ’Cause it’s been a year. An entire year.”

He looked so vulnerable then, so young and small, shoulders hunched in on himself and gripping his coffee mug so tightly Steve was afraid it might burst in his hand. His eyes were red rimmed, frightened, and some small, horrible, bitter part of Steve felt satisfied at the thought that James finally knew what it was like to wake up one day and find the person you loved, the person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with, gone and moved on without a second glance back.

Placing his coffee mug down on the table with a shaking hand, James turned back to Steve with that look of fierce determination back on his face, a look Steve knew all too well that meant James was about to say some bullheaded thing he wasn’t going to like.

“What did you do?” he asked, almost petulantly.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“To make me leave,” James clarified, and Steve felt that dead calm inside of him that came right before the white hot rage would erupt. “I wouldn’t just leave. You must’ve done something.”

“I must’ve done something,” Steve repeated, voice dangerously level. “Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know,” James replied, abruptly unsure, before turning back to Steve with his chin raised in a challenge. “Like cheated on me.”

There had been lots of fights that had started like this. Steve had always been quick to anger, James knowing exactly the right words to say to incite that fire in him. It had been a game for both of them, for James to see how far he could push Steve, for Steve to see how much damage he could do, before either one of them surrendered. Inevitably, James would leave for the night, coming home all hours of the morning drunk to sleep on the couch or staying over at Natasha’s, Steve patching up his own fist-shaped holes in the walls or sweeping up shards of glass and ceramic.

“Get out,” Steve said quietly, hands balled into fists.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Get the fuck out!” he yelled, standing up from the couch so fast he knocked into the coffee table, tipping their mugs over and spilling coffee everywhere. His face twisted in rage, blood boiling. “You don’t get to come into my fucking house and tell me how we ended! I’m not the one with memory problems.”

“Fuck you,” James spat, standing from the chair and heading for the door, Steve right on his heels. He spun around suddenly, Steve so close behind he nearly knocked into the other man. “You’re not even going to defend yourself?”

“Why should I defend myself to you?” Steve asked, standing up taller, right in James’ face, and he couldn’t fight the urge to wound, to twist the knife until he drew blood. “You mean  _ nothing  _ to me anymore.”

James let out a breath as if he really had been stabbed, eyes flashing with hurt and betrayal, and Steve almost, almost took it back before James came back to himself, face twisting in rage. He let out a guttural scream, Steve so startled he took a step back, heart beating rabbit fast and flinching away as James raised his fist, but the other man only turned and punched the wall, right through the sheetrock.

In the still silence that followed, James standing there with his fist in the wall, shoulders heaving, Steve spared a moment to wonder when in the past year their positions had reversed. When had Steve started using his words to hurt, and James using his fists.

Finally, James carefully removed his hand and shook it off, plaster dust and paint chips fluttering to the floor like gently falling snowflakes. Frozen, Steve watched with wide eyes as James strode to the door, calmly opening it before stepping outside and pulling it closed behind him. He didn’t slam it.

It would only be much later, after a sobbing phone call to Sam and another half bottle of whiskey, that Steve would make to patch up the wall and realize James had somehow managed to punch halfway through the concrete support blocks behind the sheetrock.

* * *

Steve might not have known much these days, but he was certain of one thing: Director Fury was avoiding him. He wasn’t returning any of Steve’s messages, and whenever the intelligence analyst called Darcy, she either told him he wasn’t there or was tied up in a meeting that would somehow invariably last well into the night. He didn’t attend any debriefings or intelligence meetings that Steve sat in on, and, once, when spotting the director standing in the open elevator down the hall, Steve had called, running as fast as he could with an armload of files, “Hold the door, sir!” only for Fury to shrug helplessly,  _ both  _ hands crossed behind his back, and say flippantly, “I’m pressing the button. Must be broken, Rogers,” as the doors slowly slid closed.

Steve was also hitting brick walls with the mission files, which were a complete mess. Information was redacted or missing completely, Natasha’s statements were uncharacteristically vague; she claimed to have been separated unwillfully by force, and hadn’t seen James afterwards even though he’d been sent in after her. Steve couldn’t even view Georges Batroc’s file or the details of the search for him, the information supposedly above his clearance level – although  _ Junior  _ Intelligence Collection Analyst Sharon Carter seemed to have access to it.

Many within the agency had accused Sharon of climbing the ladder through nepotism nearly her entire government career, but he doubted the fact that her great aunt Peggy being the cofounder of S.H.I.E.L.D. was the reason she had access to the files and he didn’t. Besides, Steve thought she was a nice girl, if a little green, who had only inadvertently revealed details of the case files after assuming the Senior Intelligence Collection Analyst also had access to them, backtracking with a furious blush only after realizing her mistake at his puzzled expression.

So, for a supposed superspy, Fury sure was lacking in subtlety, but Steve knew that was the point. Fury didn’t want him sticking his nose into this mission – which, if Fury knew Steve at all, he should’ve realized this would result in the exact opposite of what the director was aiming for, especially when it involved the kidnapping and torture of his former husband, of whom which he may have still pined.

The only other information he had was James’ medical file, but it wasn’t anything he didn’t already know: that he had been tortured, injected with various psychotropic drugs and sedatives, to what purpose yet to be known.

He glanced up from his computer at the sound of a commotion down the hall, glancing out his office window to see James standing beyond the outlying cubicles, surrounded by a group of agents who were all excitedly greeting him warmly. The bruises were gone, and his arm was no longer in a sling but still in a brace, fingertips wrapped up in splints. The smile on his face was strained, eyes darting around the office, shoulders tense.

The crowd and attention was making him anxious. Christ, couldn’t these people see it? Didn’t they understand what he had been through? Didn’t they care?

His desk phone rang, startling him, and he barely took his eyes off of James to absently answer: “Rogers.”

“He just left a meeting,” Darcy said from the other side of the line.

“What?” he asked dumbly, turning to the phone.

“He’s heading to his office right now.”

“Who?”

“Fury!” she hissed into the receiver. “He’ll be here in exactly five minutes, so grab your inhaler get your skinny ass up here.”

“Darcy, thank – ” he began, but she caught him off swiftly: “That’s not my name. That’s not who this is. We never talked.”

The line went dead. He shook his head as he hung up the phone, glancing back out the window to see James nowhere in sight, office workers back to life as usual. As much as he yearned to, he had no time to dwell on where the man had gone off to and what he was even doing there in the first place.

He had intelligence to collect.

* * *

This time, Steve didn’t make the mistake of announcing his presence. He skittered down the hallway on quick feet, making it to Fury’s office lobby just in time to see him barely pausing at Darcy’s desk to grab his messages. Her eyes met Steve’s over Fury’s shoulder, and right as he opened his office door, pushing it open just a gap and nearly walking inside, she called his attention back to her – saying something about her cat? – and Steve took the opportunity for what it was to slip through the open gap and slide silently into the director’s office right behind his turned back.

When Fury entered his office, he closed the door and stepped inside, eyes on his messages, glancing up at the last moment to see Steve standing in front of his desk. Fury paused, Steve finding satisfaction in a rare moment of taking the director by surprise, who fixed him with a one-eyed glare before turning his attention back to his messages as he strode to his chair.

“Now I have to fire the only assistant I’ve ever actually liked,” Fury deadpanned, settling down behind his desk heavily. “I hope you’re happy.”

“Sir,” Steve began, heart fluttering nervously in his chest. “I’m sure the majority of those belong to me, so you probably know why I’m here. I need access to those communication recordings from the Lemurian Star mission.”

“And I’m sure you know I already denied your request,” he shot back. “So you can probably get out.”

“Sir,” he barrelled on, “with all due respect – ”

“Respect?” Fury barked. “Is that what you call breaking into my office – ”

“The door was open.”

_ “Agent Rogers,” _ Fury warned, voice edged with impatience. Steve stood silent, jaw clenched. “This mission is still active. We are still out there searching for Batroc and whoever else was involved in the hijacking of the Lemurian Star and the disappearance of Agent Barnes. I understand your history with Agent Barnes and am therefore offering you  _ much _ more leeway than I would any other agent that tried to pull this shit with me, but I am going to tell you this once and once only: this is strictly need-to-know information, and you do  _ not _ need to know anything.”

“I’m the Senior Data Collection Analyst!” Steve exclaimed incredulously, and Fury raised his eyebrows at Steve’s tone. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm with great difficulty. “I am the Senior Data Collection Analyst. Before anyone else, I should have access to these files. My experience and expertise can lend itself – ”

“Are you not hearing me?” Fury interrupted, leaning forward over his desk. “Do you not understand the definition of need-to-know?”

“Agent Carter has access,” he argued, sounding petulant even to his own ears. Fury only offered him an unimpressed stare, daring Steve to defend himself, which he couldn’t help but do. “She’s a junior analyst! What level clearance are we even talking here? Seven? Eight? Carter’s a six!”

“Agent Rogers,” Fury sighed, disappointed but not resigned. “I can give you my personal assurance that we are handling this, but that’s all I can do for you. If you continue to pursue this, I can guarantee you will not like the consequences. There is plenty of work to do. I suggest you let this go, and get to it.”

“Sir – ”

“Get out,” the director snapped. “Or I will remove you myself.”

Steve stood there for just a moment longer, opening his mouth, but the fight had been taken out of him. He barely reigned in rolling his eyes, instead nodding meekly. “Yes, sir.”

Out in the hall, Darcy regarded him with a wary, sympathetic look. “Soooo…how did it go?”

He shook his head. “No dice. Thanks anyway, Darcy. I know you’re probably going to pay for that, and I appreciate it.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” she dismissed, waving away his concern. “I know how to handle him.”

“Thanks,” he said again, attempting a smile and failing miserably.

“Hey, and sorry about the inhaler thing,” she stated awkwardly. “And the skinny ass thing.”

He grinned more genuinely this time. “Don’t worry about it, you were just looking out for me. I think I’m going to head out of here, it’s past time anyway.”

“Have a good night,” she called, as he turned and headed down the hall. He waved over his shoulder, sighing heavily as he waited for the elevator, barely awake on his feet as he stepped inside. Leaning his head against the wall of the car, he closed his eyes and felt every ache and pain in his body, a weariness he’d never known before; he’d been pulling too many long days lately, trying to take his mind off of James, and Steve’s utter failure at handling their confrontation gracefully.

Once he’d grabbed his things and locked up his office, he headed to his car, making vague plans to pick up something to eat on the way home and pass out on his couch in front of the television. It was nearly dark, the parking lot mostly empty save for a few cars, and one man right beside his, backpack slung over one shoulder and a cigarette lit between his fingers.

James looked as if he’d put a little more effort into his appearance today, having had to come down to the office. His shirt was clean if not pressed, his hair washed, but he still had that haunted look to his eyes, shoulders tense as he paced, hand shaking as he brought it to his lips. He looked like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin.

Steve approached cautiously, making sure to circle wide with heavy footsteps as to not startle the other man. James’ head jerked up at the sound, eyes finding his in the evening light; his expression displayed his unease, timid yet determined, just a little defeated, clearly not looking for a fight. It must have taken a lot for him to wait here for Steve, to extend this olive branch, and any lingering anger from their argument dissipated into the cool night air.

“Hey,” James greeted quietly, before taking a pull of his cigarette.

“Thought you quit,” Steve commented stupidly, realizing his mistake as soon as James gave his cigarette a surprised glance. He’d quit only six months ago, well within his memory loss range. Steve could remember the absurd resentment he’d felt at knowing no matter how many times James had tried to quit while they’d been together, he’d only managed to succeed once they were apart. A petty, pathetic thing to think now.

Quickly, Steve shrugged, plucking it out of James’ hand. “You always did start up again when you were stressed.”

He took a drag off the cigarette, amused at James’ horrified expression as the other man slapped it right out of his mouth. It arced to the ground and rolled away beneath the car.

“What are you stupid with your asthma?” James asked, then seemed to realize he’d fallen right into the trap Steve had set for him, just like he always had whenever Steve expressed his distaste in James’ smoking. James rolled his eyes, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Christ, this isn’t how I wanted this to go. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, all right? For being such a shithead the other day.”

“It’s fine,” Steve replied, conceding, “I was kind of a shithead too. Your hand okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, holding it out for Steve to examine. His knuckles weren’t even bruised.

“Really?” Steve fought the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over the unmarred skin, hardly able to believe it. “Thought you would’ve broken it with how hard you hit the wall.” And the concrete behind it.

James rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I was actually here today for an appointment with Zola, the psych doctor?” James said, and Steve nodded. It was mandatory for all field agents to see S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psychiatrist once a year for a mental health check up, after any traumatic injuries or events, or whenever requested by a concerned supervisor. Arnim Zola was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s in house psychiatrist, a strange man who, in Steve’s opinion, could be a little intense at times. Regardless, he would have the final say whether or not James could return to the field and when.

“How’s that going?” Steve asked.

“All right, I guess,” James replied, eyes cast to the ground. “I told him about what happened. I asked him to maybe check out the meds I’m on, but he said you can’t just go changing everything, and that there’s always an adjustment period or whatever. Not saying that’s an excuse or anything, just…you know.”

Steve nodded in understanding. “Right.”

There was an awkward silence, both men standing there staring at their shoes or the end of the parking lot, anything other than each other. Steve’s mind was screaming at him to say something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of a damn thing. Conversation had never come easy after their divorce, but it had never had to. They’d never been friends, only coworkers; the furthest conversation had ever had to go was in a conference room, or a quick word while dropping off intel. They’d never learned how to do this.

“Anyway,” James rambled on, adjusting the backpack strap over his shoulder “I didn’t mean to bother you. I wasn’t going to bother you at all, but Nat really laid into me so.”

Steve blinked with surprise. Natasha had come to Steve’s defense? Had insisted that James apologize? Or at least had made him feel bad enough about his behavior to do so. Natasha hated Steve – or, at least, she’d made it appear that way, although Steve wasn’t sure how else to interpret  _ “don’t you ever go near him again.”  _ And here she was instructing James to do the exact opposite? 

Steve was so shocked at the thought, he was still trying to make sense of it when James huffed out a breath, taking his silence for acquiescence.

“I know you’re trying to get home or whatever, so…yeah,” James stammered, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I, uh, I guess I’ll see you.”

Then he was turning and walking away, Steve watching him leave for just a moment. He should let him go, let bygones be bygones, because James was confused, and Steve could admit that he was too, and neither one of them needed to add to what should’ve been done and buried more than a year ago.

One day, James would remember why he left. One day, he would hate Steve again, and they would go back to the resentment and tense working environment, go back to being virtual strangers. Maybe James would even hate Steve a little bit more after revealing such vulnerability.

Maybe, selfishly, Steve could have this for just a little bit longer. He couldn’t deny there was still a part of him attached to his ex, still a gossamer thread between them. A thread that had been pulled thinner and thinner even during their marriage, the distance between them growing well before James had walked out the door. A thread that Steve wasn’t ready to sever just yet.

He licked his lips, calling out: “You driving?”

James paused, tensing as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Uh, no. I’m not allowed to drive yet.”

“Taking the subway?”

He shook his head, biting his lip before replying quietly, “I can’t do the subway right now.”

Steve’s heart sank, imagining the crowds and the noise overwhelming James’ senses, taking him back to wherever it was that he’d been for those six weeks. He probably didn’t even know why he was scared of the trains, probably couldn’t even remember his captivity, and wasn’t that worse? To know something had been done to you, and not even remember what it was or why? How were you supposed to take back what you’d lost when you didn’t even know what it was that you’d lost in the first place?

“Come on,” Steve said, nodding towards his car. “I’ll give you a ride. You going back to your place?”

“Yeah,” James admitted with a wince he couldn’t hide quick enough. Before their fight, he’d mentioned how strange it was, to be living somewhere he didn’t recognize, how he couldn’t sleep. By his haggard appearance, he wasn’t faring much better now in the weeks that had followed.

“Unless…” Steve began, then sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed. “Unless you want to share some shitty Chinese from the place downstairs.”

James paused, hesitation clear on his face. He probably also knew this was a bad idea, eyes narrowed and searching Steve’s, so still he looked like he was holding his breath. Steve was preparing for rejection until James let out a sigh, shaking his head ruefully and offering a small, disbelieving smile. “How do you still eat there? That place has given you the shits at least a dozen times, and I even remember you throwing up once.”

“Twice,” Steve corrected, as he unlocked the car door. James gave him an unimpressed look over the roof. “The second time was from a stomach bug, though.”

“Yeah, a stomach bug called  _ salmonella _ ,” James argued dubiously, still talking even as he sat down in the car and shut the door. Steve only grinned as he settled into the driver’s seat, the ache in his chest easing infinitesimally, but more than it had in years.

* * *

Regardless of the impending gastrointestinal distress the copious amounts of greasy lo mein and pork fried rice would place on Steve’s system, he couldn’t say he was regretting inviting James back to the apartment they used to share, the other man sitting in the armchair with a box of barbecue spare ribs in his lap and a pair of chopsticks tucked deftly between his fingers. Steve had never gotten the hang of the damn things, no matter how many times his friends had tried to teach him, and so his fork sat on the table beside his half empty boxes.

There was a rerun on the television, a show James had always loved, laughing at the punchlines no matter how many times he’d seen it. It was nice to see him smiling, poking at his food and still taking bites even though he must’ve been nearly stuffed to the brim, Steve waiting for the inevitable moment when James would slide his box on the table away from himself and demand for Steve to take it away before he puked.

But the next time Steve looked at him, James was sleeping, head tipped back and soft sighs escaping his slightly parted lips. He watched him for an endless amount of time, the soft glow of the television highlighting the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, the sharp relief of his cheekbones made more prominent by how little he must’ve been eating. Steve didn’t have the heart to wake him, instead gingerly extracting James’ takeout from his lap and quietly tidying up, before grabbing his old NYU blanket from the hall and gently draping it over James’ sleeping form.

He went through his own bedtime routine, brushing his teeth and washing his face, meeting his eye in the mirror and wondering what the hell he was doing, forcefully pushing away the light blooming in his chest, the comfort of knowing James was back in their apartment, filling that yawning void that had been empty for over one year. And wasn’t that what had made every fight bearable? Every stupid argument, every damn frustration? Knowing that even if they weren’t sleeping in the same bed, Bucky was in the apartment somewhere, on the couch, or even just at Natasha’s, but still coming back?

Settling into bed, Steve allowed himself just one moment for the relief to wash over him, straining his ears for any sound of his ex-husband in the next room, but just knowing he was there was enough.

* * *

Someone was screaming. James was screaming, a horrible, animal sound, the kind of sound someone made when they were dying, so desperate and bleak they’d do anything to stop the inevitable. Steve was throwing himself out of bed before he was even fully awake, landing on all fours on the floor before scrambling up and out towards the noise.

“James!” he yelled as he rounded the hallway into the living room. The armchair was empty, as was the couch, and for one breathtaking moment, Steve thought whoever had taken James captive had come back for him. That they’d broken into the apartment and found him, and were dragging him back to that cave in Afghanistan to finish what they’d started. “James!”

“Barnes,” he heard from behind the armchair, in the corner of the room. James’ voice was a hoarse whisper thick with tears and shaking with fear. “James Buchanan. Sergeant. Three two five five seven zero three eight…”

Steve crept around the side of the armchair and knelt down, peering cautiously behind it. James was pressed as far into the corner as he could get, knees drawn up and head tucked down, arms wrapped around his head in protection. He was shaking, muttering his name, rank, and serial number over and over again.

He’d taken off his long sleeved shirt at some point in the night, only wearing a tank top undershirt. Shards of light from streetlamps beyond the window shone down onto his skin, revealing the most visible of the physical torture James had endured. Strips of skin from his left shoulder all the way down his arm had been carved out of him, knife-sharp lines of thick scabs in varying shades of healing surrounded by pink and white skin where scarring was already forming. The deepest ones were still taped with thin white strips of medical bandages, blood seeping through where the tender skin had been pulled too roughly.

Steve watched with wide eyes, barely breathing, the horror of the scene before him rendering him temporarily immobile.

“Bucky?” he tried, foregoing James’ proper name to something he might find familiar at a time like this. James went completely silent and still, holding his breath and even reigning in his trembling. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Steve?” his voice was so small, like a child’s, and Steve pressed a hand to his mouth to stop himself from sobbing. He needed to be strong right now, for James’ sake, to bring him back from wherever it was he was right now.

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me,” Steve stated, nodding even though James’ head was still tucked down in his knees. Finally, James shifted, peeking just one eye above his folded arms, searching Steve’s face in the dark, who attempted a comforting smile. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” he breathed with relief, lowering his arms from his head. “You’re still here. You’re still here.”

“Yeah, I’m still here, Bucky,” he stated, something in James’ tone making him furrow his brow in confusion. There was another meaning here, something Steve was missing.

“They told me…they told me…” His eyes drifted away, unfocused, trembling fingertips curiously rubbing at his temples. “You’re still here.”

His memories, Steve realized, as James’ hands curled into fists, pressing hard into either side of his face. In the hospital, he had told Steve his captors had said that he’d never see Steve again, that they’d tried to make James forget him. James’ relief wasn’t only that Steve was here with him, but also that he’d recognized him at all in the first place.

_ Jesus Christ _ , Steve thought.  _ What did they do to you? _

“I’m still here,” he assured James, keeping his voice quiet to hide the tremor. Gently, he reached out and clasped James’ wrists in his hands, tugging them away from where James was pressing them so hard into his face he was leaving marks. He pulled him in close, James folding into his arms and collapsing against him, shaking so hard Steve thought he would break apart. Steve held on fiercely, holding him tight to keep him together.

“I’m still here, Bucky. I’m not going anywhere. ’Till the end of the line, remember?” he said, an expression James had once said to Steve years ago, back when Steve’s mother had died. They had only just been dating for a few months, but James had been unafraid when offering Steve his house key, so sure of how he’d felt about Steve and willing to show it in Steve’s darkest hour, regardless of how new their relationship had been. It hurt him to say it now, their secret promise they’d shared for so many years, a promise they’d both broken. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.  ’Til the end of the line.”

“Steve,” James cried into his shoulder, clutching at Steve’s t-shirt. He cried for a long time, wretched, desolate sobs that hurt Steve’s heart to hear them. He shushed him gently, smoothing a hand down James’ back in comforting circles, gently rocking them until James quieted and was only hiccuping with residual sobs. Finally, James pulled away, Steve allowing him to even though it was the last thing Steve wanted.

“Sorry,” he sniffled, wiping his face with hands, eyes cast down and away with embarrassment. “I know you have to work in the morning.”

“It’s fine,” Steve dismissed, shrugging. “Come on. Go wash up, I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“Okay,” he replied, sounding so young and so tired.

Steve fetched James some water, placing it on the coffee table before gathering up the blanket and pillows from the armchair and placing them on the couch.

“Am I in trouble?” he heard from behind him, causing him to cast James a startled glance. The man had pulled on his button down shirt again, hanging open on top of his undershirt. He tugged on the left side self-consciously, pulling it a little tighter across his chest. 

“What? No,” Steve replied, puzzled. “Why would you be – ?” Then it dawned on him: James was talking about sleeping on the couch. How many times had Steve pointedly placed a pillow and blanket there, just like he was doing now, after they’d gotten into a fight or James had done something Steve hadn’t liked? “Oh.”

James rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t…it’s just…”

“It’s okay,” Steve told him quietly, even though it wasn’t, even though it was hard, even though when James made a joke that Bucky would have, it picked at the scab over the still fresh wound just a little bit more each time. “Get some rest.”

Steve slowly made his way down the hallway, the sounds of James settling down on the couch behind him.

“Hey, Steve?” James called, voice timid.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think…” he began, glancing around the dark room. “Do you think you could just…sit here? For a minute?”

Steve didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, James.”

He moved back into the living room, sitting down in the armchair as James pulled the blanket tighter around him. 

“You only used to call me James when I was in trouble,” James murmured from the couch, barely awake.

“Then you should be used to it,” Steve replied. “On account of how much trouble you were always in.”

James huffed a laugh. “I gotta admit, it  _ is _ growing on me.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Me too.”

In a matter of moments, James was asleep. Steve waited a few minutes to be sure before standing from the chair, hovering over James and watching him, knowing he should go back to bed but too keyed up, too anxious to let James out of his sight. Instead, he sat down in front of the couch, leaning his back against it and closing his eyes. The room seemed much less silent now, much less ominous, car engines passing by in the street, a dog barking nearby, sirens in the distance, James’ breathing slow and even behind him, his warm breath stirring the soft hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck.

“I’m going to find those fuckers,” Steve vowed quietly into the dark. “I’m going to find them, and I’m going to kill them, and they’re never going to hurt you again.”

When James shifted in his sleep, draping an arm over Steve’s shoulder, his big, warm hand splayed possessively over Steve’s belly, only then was Steve finally able to relax, close his eyes, and find sleep.

* * *

* * *

 

Steve might’ve had work the next morning, but, for the first time in his life, he picked up the phone and dialed his direct supervisor, the formidable Deputy Director Maria Hill, and called in sick. James watched him silently from the kitchen table, expression curious and eyes lit with amusement as Steve stammered his way through an excuse, coughing theatrically into the phone. James almost burst out laughing at that one, nearly choking on his coffee halfway through a sip. Steve glared at him from his spot by the counter, silently hissing at him to shut up as he turned away towards the coffee machine.

“Right, so, I’ll call you later if I feel better,” he stated regretfully, fingers fiddling with the sugars pilfered from various restaurants and cafes in the basket on the counter. He arranged them methodically by color: brown, white, yellow, pink, then rearranged them in a different order.

“Jesus, Rogers,” she sighed, in a way that almost made him crack and take back everything and head in right away. “You’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for – what? – seven years?”

“Eight.”

“I don’t have your personnel file in front of me,” she barked dismissively. “Regardless, I don’t think you’ve called in sick one time. Even when you should’ve. That stomach bug took out half the office.”

“I’m still sorry about that. I thought it was just some bad Chinese food.”

“You should be. Now stop with the guilt trip and get better or whatever.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Well. Thank you, Miss Hill, I – ”

There was the unmistakable chime of the call disconnecting, and Steve breathed a sigh of relief so deep he nearly melted against the counter. When he turned back to James, the man was still sitting there with his coffee mug between his hands, not even bothering to hide a grin.

“Shut up,” Steve said, before James could say anything, not that it stopped him.

“What was that?” James crowed, and Steve rolled his eyes as he poured himself some coffee before joining James at the table. “Good God, we really need to work on your delivery, Stevie.”

Their eyes met at the endearment, all brevity sucked from the room. James got that remorseful look on his face he always did when he slipped up between Then and Now, and while it still hurt, Steve wasn’t as bitter about it as he would’ve been after last night.

“Listen, I’m not the superspy here, okay?” Steve retorted, and James smiled gratefully. “But I’ll make sure to call Natasha when I need some tips.”

James barked with laughter, rolling his eyes before settling down. “So what’s the plan here? I assume you didn’t play hooky to spend time with your brain damaged ex-husband. Speaking of which, I gotta take all my stupid pills.”

“I did, actually,” Steve retorted, with a determined set to his shoulders that gave James pause.

“Shit, I know that look,” James groaned. “That’s your Captain America look.”

Steve sighed, still unable to escape his nickname all the way from his first interview at S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d been in a room with a panel of S.H.I.E.L.D. members including an old, ornery colonel named Chester Phillips; a doctor Abraham Erskine; and cofounder Agent Peggy Carter herself, who had aged beautifully and remained as sharp as a tack, even in her seventies.

It was only after answering questions like, “Do you want to kill Hydra agents?” with answers like, “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they’re from.” Or, inexplicably, when presented with what was supposed to be an expunged juvenile criminal record with several police reports detailing his back alley scuffles, Agent Carter asking, “Do you have something against running away?” and Steve stating, “You start running, they’ll never let you stop. You stand up, push back…can’t say no forever,” that Colonel Phillips had muttered, “Looks like we got ourselves a regular Captain America over here,” and Peggy had fixed him with bright eyes, smiling with lips stained a classy red, “Oh, hush, Colonel. I like him.”

Once hired, Phillips had refused to leave the moniker in the interview, instead biting out the name in exasperated tones when Steve would get a little heated over what he believed to be a moral injustice. After that, the nickname had just stuck, lingering even after Phillips had retired. While it wasn’t supposed to be flattering, Steve had taken a shine to it; a kind of superhero alter ego that he’d vowed to live up to, who always stood up for the little guy and followed a moral code regardless of what his orders were.

“Look,” Steve said now, leveling James with a heavy stare. “Something happened on the Lemurian Star. Your disappearance wasn’t just opportunity. It was planned.”

James sat back, digesting the information for a moment before asking, “What have you got?”

“Not much,” Steve admitted. “The files are incomplete, and I can’t get anybody to talk. I know she’s your friend, but Natasha’s hiding something. So is Fury. Now, I’m not saying they were in on it, but they know something and they won’t tell me, and I want to know why.”

“Maybe they’re handling it,” James countered, but his uncertain expression belied his words. “Maybe they just don’t need you on this one.”

“James,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I’m the Senior Intelligence Collection Analyst. I have a level eight clearance. There are only three people at S.H.I.E.L.D. with clearance higher than me: Hill, Fury, and Pierce.  _ I’m _ the one who decides who gets to see what.  _ I’m _ the one who parcels it down. So why don’t I have the information? Why aren’t I working on it?”

James glanced away, clenching his jaw and blinking back the sting in his eyes. “Because they’re hiding something. Natasha’s – ” His voice cracked, James swallowing hard, but when he turned back to Steve, chin tipped up bravely, he asked, “So where do we start?”

Steve grinned, wicked and sharp. “I’m glad you asked. I have a guy that owes me a favor.”

* * *

As Steve dropped his keys into the valet’s hand, James waited on the sidewalk, head tilted back and eyes traveling all the way up the side of Stark Tower.

“Exactly what kind of favor does Tony Stark owe you?” James asked, squinting in the sunlight. He turned to Steve, who shrugged.

“I may have convinced a senator not to press charges after he caught Stark drunk and naked in the fountain on his front lawn,” Steve stated, pausing for dramatic effect, “fooling around with the senator’s daughter.”

James winced. “Yikes. How’d you know the senator?”

“I didn’t, actually,” he admitted, as the doorman ushered them inside. “Sam knew his son through the VA. I just happened to be the only person in D.C. at the time who Stark hadn’t pissed off.”

“Wow,” James murmured, impressed. “It really is all about who you know.”

“Hello, gentleman,” the receptionist greeted them warmly, looking up from the various monitors at her desk and ignoring the multiple lines lit up on the phone. She was, of course, beautiful, with bone straight black hair and bubblegum pink lips. “How may I help you?”

“I’m Steve Rogers,” he stated, plastering on his politest smile. “I’m here to see Tony.”

“Mr. Stark?” she asked, peering at a tablet she whipped out of somewhere. “I don’t see a Steve Rogers here. Do you have an appointment?”

“Do we really need an appointment, sweetheart?” James asked from beside him, leaning one elbow on the desk and offering his most rakish grin. The receptionist flushed immediately, peeking up at him through her long eyelashes and smiling shyly. Steve rolled his eyes.

“No, we don’t really need an appointment,” Steve stated, elbowing James out of the way. “Tell him Steve Rogers is here. He’ll let me up.”

“Sir,” she began, but James placed a hand on top of hers.

“Just give him a call, would ya?” he pleaded, followed by a wink. “Then maybe you can give me a call later?”

She giggled again, Steve cursing under his breath, but it got the job done. They were soon on their way to the penthouse, staring at their reflections in the obnoxious gold doors of the elevator moving so smoothly the only way they knew they’d stopped was when they’d arrived.

“Mr. Stark,” the elevator intoned in a pleasant British voice as the doors opened. “Your guests have arrived.”

“Steve Rogers,” Tony said dramatically, facing the bar that took up the entire right side of the room. He was pouring a drink into tumblers from an unlabeled, heavy-looking glass bottle, back towards them. “I’m not supposed to talk to you. Terms of the divorce, you know?” He spun around with two drinks in his hand, stopping at the sight of James standing next to Steve. “Oh. Well, this is awkward.”

“It’s fine, Tony,” James stated, holding up a hand to ward off the offered drink. “You know it’s like, ten in the morning.”

“God, now you sound like Pepper,” he sighed, putting the drinks on the counter and leaning back against it. “So what are we here for? I assume it’s not to hang out with your old pal Tony.”

“I need a favor,” James said.

“I don’t owe you any favors,” Tony shot back, pointing in his direction. “But you are my friend.” He shifted his finger to Steve. “I do owe you a favor. So…” – finger back to James – “you’ll owe me a favor,” – back to Steve – “and you and I will be square. I like it. What’s the favor?”

“We need you to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve told him, then raised a challenging eyebrow. “If you can.”

Tony threw his head back and laughed.

“ _ If _ I can,” he said, then repeated, “ _ If _ I  _ can _ . Sit down kids. Take a load off. Let your Uncle Tony get to work. Have you seen the new Star Wars? Bet you still won’t have by the time I’m done. On account of how fast I am.”

Steve shook his head. “Yeah, we got it.”

As it turned out, they got through Star Wars  _ and  _ halfway through the new Star Trek. James was dozing beside Steve on the hardest and probably most expensive couch Steve had ever sat in, as if the more money you spent the less amount of comfort you got. James’ head was on Steve’s shoulder, eyes nearly closed and hand resting on the small space in between them, just touching Steve’s thigh. Steve fought with all of his willpower not to reach down and lace James’ long, nimble fingers in his, to press his palm into that big, strong hand.

“I’m in!” Tony yelled from his interface at the other end of the room, causing James’ eyes to snap open and his head pop up. He sniffled and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, both men shifting to get up when the television in front of them began to mirror what Tony was looking at on his screen with a wave of his hand. “Sorry to interrupt Star Wars.”

“We were finished with Star Wars,” Steve informed him.

“We were?” James asked.

“You fell asleep.”

“No witnesses. Your word against mine,” Tony retorted, eyes brightly lit by the screen before him. He rubbed his hands together gleefully “Okay, folks, what are we looking for? Blackmail? The president’s bank account numbers? Nuclear codes?”

“No,” Steve intercepted patiently. “First, I need the communication records from the Lemurian Star.”

“Lemurian Star…Lemurian Star…” Tony murmured, fingertips tapping and swiping. “Got it.”

“Key up one hour and forty two minutes,” Steve directed, static sounding over the speakers throughout the room. “This is right after James’ altercation with Batroc, when the transmission supposedly failed. Can you clean that up?”

“Let’s just assume I can do anything, okay?” Tony responded, sparing him an exasperated look before turning back to his screen, hands moving furiously across the interface.

_ “Natasha!”  _ James’ voice came rang through, only slightly distorted.  _ “What are you doing?”  _ Pause. “ _ Rumlow needed your help.” _

“Okay,” Steve said, nodding. “Now enhance the audio so we can hear who he’s talking to.”

_ “What are you doing?”  _ James asked again.

_ “Backing up the hard drive,”  _ Natasha’s unmistakable voice replied, and James sucked in a breath beside him.  _ “It’s a good habit to get into.” _

_ “Rumlow needed your help. What the hell are you doing up here?”  _ There was a short pause.  _ “You’re saving S.H.I.E.L.D. intel.” _

_ “Whatever I can get my hands on,”  _ she said.

_ “Our mission is to rescue hostages.” _

_ “No. That’s your mission. And you’ve done it beautifully.” _

_ “You just jeopardized this whole operation!” _

_ “I think that’s overstating things.” _

There was the sound of an explosion, loud and sudden. James flinched so hard Steve felt it, his jaw clenched and eyes blinking rapidly. This time, Steve didn’t hesitate to rest his hand on top of James’, squeezing comfortingly and grounding him in the present, James holding on tight right back. Tony cut off the audio from the speakers, sticking a headset in one ear and continuing to listen.

“Do you remember any of that?” Steve asked gently.

James shook his head, eyes rimmed red and far away as he whispered, “She told me she hadn’t seen me.”

“Guys,” Tony interrupted, cueing up the audio again. “This is from a Jack Rollins’ comm. I enhanced it so you can hear Natasha.”

_ “Where’s Rumlow?” _ she asked.

_ “Where’s Rumlow?” _ Rollins, another S.T.R.I.K.E. team member, retorted.  _ “Where the fuck have  _ you _ been? He went in when he heard the explosion.” _

_ “Where’s Barnes?” _

_ “Rumlow sent him in after you. He didn’t find you?” _

Natasha didn’t even hesitate.  _ “No.” _

“Fuck,” James hissed, leaning forward and slipping his hand out of Steve’s to press his fingers to his temples, elbows on his knees. He shook his head vehemently. “She’s not in on this. She can’t be in on this. She’s my friend. Natasha’s my friend.”

He was breathing too fast, rocking back and forth with his eyes clenched shut, sweat breaking out on his upper lip. 

“Tony,” Steve barked, the audio immediately stopped. Steve knelt down in front of James, hands on the other man’s knees. “James, look at me. Look at me.”

James opened his eyes, bright with fear and confusion and pain. “She’s supposed to be my friend. She’s supposed to be my friend.”

“I know,” Steve soothed gently, then nodded determinedly. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this. Okay? We’re going to figure this out.”

“Steve, she’s my friend,” he insisted, trembling. “Brock and I, we – I remember that. We – ”

“I know,” Steve said again, wondering what else James had begun remembering from the past year, but now was hardly the time to ask. “It’s going to be okay. I’m right here, okay? We’re in this together. ’Til the end of the line, right?”

“’Til the end of the line,” James repeated automatically.

Tony materialized beside them, holding out the two drinks he’d made when they’d first arrived. James glanced up, snatching one and knocking it back before handing it back to Tony, then grabbing the other. Tony opened his mouth to protest, but James quickly downed that one too, and soon the billionaire was left holding two empty glasses.

“Really, Tony?” Steve balked.

“In my defense,” Tony countered, “one was for you.”

Steve sighed, watching James carefully, who leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes, letting out deep, shaky breaths, but at least attempting to remain calm. “Let’s just get through the rest of the audio, and then we’ll go from there. Okay, James?”

He placed a hand on James’ shoulder, who opened his eyes and fixed Steve with a weary gaze. “Okay.”

The rest of the audio didn’t contain anything that wasn’t in the official report. Once the hostages had been rescued, the S.T.R.I.K.E. team had gone back into the ship to clear it of any remaining hostiles and search for Batroc and James. They hadn’t been able to find either of them, with both Natasha and Brock insisting that neither of them had run into James at any point after Brock had sent James back into the ship to retrieve Natasha. They listened for long, careful minutes, close to two hours, but didn’t find anything useful.

“So, Natasha’s definitely lying,” Steve surmised, staring at the computer monitor with Tony. “And I’d bet my paycheck Rumlow is too. The only question is whether or not they were in this together, or if they each had their own agenda.”

“Fucking Black Widow,” James spat, voice oddly slurred, and both Steve and Tony turned to see the man lying practically sideways on the couch, the bottle of scotch from the bar clutched in his hand and nearly empty. He broke into a slew of Russian that Steve didn’t understand, but he didn’t need an interpreter to translate the vehemence with which it was spoken.

It was Natasha’s native language, the country she was from. James was Russian on his mother’s side, growing up speaking both English and Russian. Steve had always been absurdly jealous the two could speak the same language, feeling like an intruding third wheel when they would hold side conversations or make jokes, James shooting Steve a placating wink or smile after remembering he was there. He’d always offered to teach Steve, but the intelligence analyst had never really had the time while working so hard to rise through the ranks at S.H.I.E.L.D., and maybe a smaller, pettier part of himself just hadn’t tried out of spite, or the fear that James had only been offering out of pity, not because he really wanted Steve to share the language with him.

There were a lot of things Steve thought he might’ve gotten wrong, things he would do differently now, if it wasn’t too late. But hindsight was always 20/20.

“Barnes,” Tony interjected timidly, at the glassy look in James’ eye, the slow way he was moving as if through molasses. Much too fazed for the few drinks that had been left in the bottle; James had always been able to handle his liquor. “You wouldn’t happen to be taking any antidepressant or antianxiety or anti-rage monster medications, are you?”

“Let’s see,” James said, holding up swaying fingers and counting off. “There’s Prozac, pro – pro _ pran _ olol,” he annunciated carefully, “dex – dexemeth – ”

“ _ Okay _ , no more drinks for you,” Tony stated, snatching the bottle out of James’ hand.

“Tony!” Steve exclaimed accusingly, eyes wide with worry.

“You were here too!” Tony argued back. “I didn’t see you stop him!”

_ “Suchka!”  _ James swore so loudly it echoed throughout the room, startling the other two men into silence. He looked up at them, tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. “Natasha was supposed to be my friend! She was supposed to be my friend! She took a bullet for me, when we were in – when we were in the Ukraine! She stood next to me when I got married!

“She took me – she took me into her home!” he cried, speaking between big, gulping breaths, hysterical. Steve and Tony could only watch with pity, Steve’s heart aching at the sight of James so distraught and unable to do anything to ease the pain. “After the – after the hospital, she – she let me sleep in her bed, she – she – she was my  _ friend! _ She was supposed to be my – ” He paused suddenly, gasping hugely and looking up with wide, startled eyes. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Both men hastily snatched him up off the couch and carried him into the adjoining bathroom, where James promptly vomited into the toilet. Steve held back his hair, Tony fetching a cool washcloth that Steve pressed to the back of James’ neck. He threw up at least half a dozen times, crying all the while, until finally there was nothing left but dry heaves. Steve looked up at Tony from his spot on the floor next to James, a little at a loss of what to do next.

“It’s going to be fine, Rogers,” Tony assured him, leaning against the ornate sink. “Buckaroo here is just going to go night night for a little while, and you’re going to go figure out what the hell is going on here. Just help me get him to one of the guest rooms, and I’ll take it from here.”

“Tony, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Steve said, rubbing James’ back when he started dry heaving again.

“Listen,” he responded, a hard edge to his eyes, voice very, very grave, “Natasha was supposed to be my friend too. This could have easily been me sitting here wasting a perfectly good two thousand dollar scotch, which alone is enough to end a friendship. So leave Barnes here with me, and make this better.”

Steve hesitated, brushing James’ hair back from his face, who moaned piteously.

“Come on,” Tony goaded, kneeling down on the other side of James to meet Steve’s gaze. “I know you’re just champing at the bit to go make graphs or powerpoint presentations or whatever it is you do for your day job that I’m sure is very important.”

“That is actually a huge part of my job,” Steve admitted, then squared his shoulders. “But this sounds more like a job for Captain America.”

Tony regarded him dubiously. “Who the fuck is Captain America?”

* * *

Steve had to do something, but he didn’t need Captain America, moral activist just yet, and he didn’t need Steve Rogers, Senior Intelligence Collection Analyst either. He needed that sly, back alley Steve who was too small to win a fight, too weak to throw a punch that could do any kind of damage.  _ That  _ Steve could do what he needed to do at a time like this, could do what he did best: puff up his chest, talk a lot of shit, and fly by the seat of his pants.

And hope it worked.

Because in all honesty, he didn’t even actually know anything – at least, not anything valuable enough he could use as leverage; he just knew enough to be dangerous. He had to play his hand right if he wanted to walk out of S.H.I.E.L.D. with anything useful, if he would be allowed to walk out at all. It was a risk he would have to take, and besides, if Steve didn’t touch base within two hours, he’d instructed Tony to find him through whatever means necessary, which really just meant Tony’s impressive collection of lawyers and politicians.

He sat in his car in the parking lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. and listened to the Lemurian Star audio uploaded to his phone one more time just to hype himself up, recalling James sitting on the couch in Tony’s lounge in hysterics, having drunk a half bottle of scotch while on several different types of medications he was taking due to the severe PTSD he’d obtained from six weeks spent being tortured and experimented on in a hole in Afghanistan. He saw the wounds on James’ arm, saw them as he acquired them: a faceless man asking questions, meticulously slicing into his skin when he didn’t get the answers he wanted. Heard the screams, the same screams that had echoed in his apartment in the middle of the night.

No one was going to get away with this. Steve would leave no stone unturned, search Heaven and Hell until he found the people responsible for this. He didn’t like bullies, he didn’t run from a fight, and he didn’t stand by idly while others were beaten down and taken advantage of. And when you messed with his friends? With his family? With someone he  _ loved?  _ He would scorch the earth if he had to, to bring those assholes to justice.

Determined, he took a calming breath, squared his shoulders, and got out of the car.

“Agent Rogers!” Darcy greeted with surprise, as she peered at him from over her desk. She frowned at his casual clothes, used to seeing him in a nice shirt and tie. “Are you feeling better?”

“Is Fury in there?” he asked, without preamble.

Her frown deepened “Well, yeah, I think so, but – wait! You can’t go in there!”

She raced around the desk in her clunky heels, but Steve was faster, rushing towards the heavy wooden doors and throwing them open before she even reached him. Fury was sitting at his desk, looking up from his computer at the commotion and rolling his eyes as soon as he saw Steve.

“Sir, I’m so sorry – ” Darcy began, nearly crashing into Steve’s back, but he didn’t even spare her a second glance.

“I know about the intel,” Steve stated, with as much confidence as he could muster.

“Miss Lewis, please give us a moment,” Fury instructed, without taking his eye off of Steve. She left quietly, closing the doors behind her. “Feeling better, I take it?”

“You just can’t stop yourself from lying, can you?” Steve demanded, ignoring the comment.

“I didn’t lie,” Fury stated. “Agent Romanoff had a different mission than the S.T.R.I.K.E. team.”

“Which you didn’t feel obliged to share,” Steve went on, carefully not pausing, even though, thanks to his years of experience as an intelligence analyst, he immediately recognized Fury hadn’t mentioned Brock Rumlow. There was something Fury didn’t know or wasn’t willing to say, but Steve didn’t have all the puzzle pieces yet, and he was going to hold every piece of information he had close to the chest.

“I’m not obliged to share anything,” Fury retorted, voice impossibly smug.

“Those hostages could’ve died, Fury!” Steve nearly shouted, feeling his anger bubbling right beneath the surface of his skin. He stalked forward, holding his hands out in supplication. “James – Agent Barnes could’ve died!”

“I sent in the best team we’ve got to make sure nobody got hurt,” Fury stated. “It’s unfortunate Agent Barnes was taken, but that had nothing to do with Agent Romanoff or her mission.”

“Soldiers trust each other,” Steve barrelled on determinedly. “That’s what makes it an army. Not a bunch of guys running around and shooting guns!”

“The last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye.”

“How can anyone lead a mission when the people they’re leading have missions of their own?” Steve asked.

“It’s called compartmentalization,” Fury explained, still up on his high horse. “Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them all.”

“Except you.”

“You’re wrong about me,” he said. “I do share. I’m nice like that. But let me make one thing clear, Agent Rogers.” Then, Fury stood up and circled his desk, approaching Steve slowly but confidently, striding right up to him. “You went to school, and sat in an air conditioned classroom with a hundred other babyfaced punks who think they can graduate suma cumme laude and grow up to boss around real men who spent the last four years crawling through the sandbox in the Middle East getting shot at and blown up and tortured trying to save a country that hates them.”

The taller man bent forward, placing his hands on his knees to be eye level with Steve. It was a deliberate gesture, meant to be emasculating and demeaning, to put Steve in his place. Steve raised his chin defiantly. “Sir – ”

“You are a desk jockey,” Fury told him. “I have agents – real agents – working on this. They are working hard and fast to get to the bottom of the Lemurian Star mission and what happened to Agent Barnes, and I will be damned if I let a desk jockey tell me how best to do my job. This is strike two, Rogers. One more, and I will fire you so fast and so efficiently you will never work in this city, or in intelligence, ever again. Am I clear?”

Steve was so angry tears were prickling his eyes, and he had to swallow hard before he could answer, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“I said, _ yes, sir!” _ he repeated louder, eyes cast to the ground.

“Now get out,” Fury commanded, turning his back away. “And don’t you dare let me catch you in my office again, unless it’s to turn in your resignation.”

* * *

Back in his car in the parking lot, Steve gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, breathing deeply and evenly as he tried to dissipate the anger simmering in his veins and come up with his next plan of action.

He couldn’t just give up. Losing his job didn’t even matter. It was a risk he was willing to take if it meant finding answers for James; he wasn’t about to leave the man broken in pieces with nothing to pull himself back together, no answers and no closure, regardless of whatever their relationship status was.

However, Steve knew when to leave well enough alone. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of Fury. He couldn’t trust Natasha – if he could even find her. He couldn’t trust Rumlow either, but there had to be someone – there had to be something. He just had to find it.

* * *

“Hey, Cap,” Tony greeted, as Steve strode back into Tony’s private lounge, posture slumped with defeat. “Any luck?”

“Not yet,” Steve sighed, moving to the bar to pour himself a drink.

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Tony replied absently, still half concentrating at his computer workstation, typing on his keyboard and swiping at the touch screen with fervor. “Secret agencies are usually pretty good at keeping secrets. The clue is in the name.”

“How’s James?” he asked, before knocking back the entire shot of scotch and depositing the empty glass back on the counter.

“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands. Pepper’s taking care of him,” Tony assured him. “She’s got plenty of experience in bringing drunks back from the dead, on account of being married to one. She’s a miracle worker. She’s like the Jesus of alcoholics.”

Steve made a mental note to pick up flowers for Pepper at the corner store before making his way back to the guest room they’d left James in. “Find anything new?”

“Nothing yet,” Tony gritted out in a way that let Steve know just how frustrated he was. “It’s taking a hell of a lot of decryption to get anywhere, and I have to cover my tracks so S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know I’m roto-rooting their shit.” He wrinkled his nose. “I probably could’ve worded that better. Anyway, has James said anything to you that could point me in some kind of direction? I’m kind of flying blind here.”

Steve crossed one arm over his chest, pressing the fingers of his other hand to his mouth in thought. “He said his captors wanted him to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“He said me, but I’m not sure if that was just in a general sense,” he replied. “He hasn’t really said anything else, and – to be honest – I haven’t really had the opportunity or the desire to ask.”

“Maybe he knew something he shouldn’t have,” Tony suggested.

“That isn’t what the audio suggests.”

“Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have,” his friend tried. “Something on the ship.”

“The only thing he saw on the ship that he wasn’t supposed to was Natasha,” Steve reminded him, his expression displaying his disgust. “But it still doesn’t tell us what she was doing.”

“Or what Rumlow had to do with it.”

“Or if they were in on it together.” Steve let out a groan, scrubbing his hands up his face and into his hair, tugging at the strands in aggravation. “We’re getting nowhere!”

“Hey,” Tony gently scolded, placing a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder. His tone was soothing, but there was a hard gleam to his eye. The genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist was nowhere to be found; only a man who had also been betrayed by his own country just a few years ago when one of his own employees and closest friends had been caught selling Stark Industries’ military weapons to known terrorists right under Tony’s nose. “Nobody fucks my friends over and gets away with it. Don’t worry. I’m just getting started, kiddo. Go check on James. If he tells you anything else, if he remembers anything, let me know. It might help.”

“Okay,” Steve sighed, settling his nerves with a shake of his shoulders and a toss of his head.

“I’m going to keep digging for gold here – God, I need better metaphors. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said, voice full with gratitude and only a little bit of unchecked emotion.

“Don’t mention it.” Tony winked garishly before turning back to the computer, startling a huff of laughter out of the data analyst, which he was sure had been the point.

* * *

_ What a fucking mess _ , Steve thought, as he made his way a few floors down to the guest residences, and the only person who even stood a chance at grasping one of the tenuous threads and unspooling the whole thing was the same person who could hardly remember what had happened.

Well, Steve wasn’t entirely sure if that was true. The only thing left to do was ask, but it left a queasy, leaden feeling in his gut, imagining making James relive his capture and torture, especially after what he had witnessed last night in his apartment and this afternoon at Tony’s.

The closer he got to James’ assigned room, the more anxiety crept under his skin. Now, it seemed stupid to have taken the extra twenty minutes to run downstairs for a bouquet of flowers. He rushed down the halls of the Tower as fast as he could just short of running, needing to see James. He needed to see him with his own eyes, alive and safe and not going anywhere, not without Steve.

Somehow, Pepper must have known he was coming. She opened the door, looking elegant as always even though all she was wearing was a plain white tee shirt and a pair of old, faded jeans, her hair pulled up into a ponytail. She smiled gently, her eyes kind as he approached.

“How is he?” Steve asked first, not even properly greeting her with a rudeness that would surely have his mother turning over in her grave.

“He’s fine,” she replied, gesturing him inside. “He’s still resting, but he’s been more awake. Going to have a hell of a hangover, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll bet.”

“How are you?” she asked, unprecedented, her expression displaying her concern.

“Me?” he asked, reeling at the implication that he needed any kind of concern whatsoever. Not when James had been taken for six weeks and tortured in a hole in the ground, while Steve had been oblivious in his air conditioned office studying data and typing up reports. “I’m fine. What do I have to complain about?”

“Steve,” she admonished gently, a soft, amused smile on her lips. “The victims of trauma aren’t just the ones who experienced it first hand.”

It was so startlingly considerate he nearly burst into tears right in the living room, holding onto the flowers in his hands as tightly as he was holding onto his composure, crushing the stems in his fist.

“I’m hanging in there,” he said honestly, voice thick with emotion. He turned away, sniffling quietly and wiping at his eyes as subtly as he could. “Thank you for asking.”

“Are those for James?” she inquired, deflecting from his obvious embarrassment.

He cleared his throat, getting a hold of himself. “No, actually, these are for you. For taking care of him.”

Her face lit up with delight, reaching for the half-broken flowers and pressing them to her face, inhaling the scent of roses and baby’s breath. “They’re lovely, Steve! It’s been so long since I’ve gotten flowers. I’ll put them in a vase right now. Why don’t you go check on James? He’s just down the hall, the last door on the right.”

“Thank you, Miss Potts.”

“Don’t you dare! You call me Pepper,” she demanded, eyebrows raised. “I’m going to head upstairs. I’m leaving in a few hours for my mom’s, but if you need anything, just call me, okay? My number’s listed right here on the fridge. After I go, J.A.R.V.I.S. can get you anything that you need.”

“Yes, Pepper,” he responded, and she offered him a pleased grin. “Thanks again. Have a good night.”

He treaded down the hallway with light footsteps to the partially open doorway, steeling himself before gently pushing the door the rest of the way open. James was so nestled within the fluffiest down comforter Steve had ever seen, only the very top of his hair was visible, dark waves in stark contrast to the white pillowcase. Steve gripped the doorway with white knuckles, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding at the sight of him.

Quietly, he crossed the room to the opposite side of the bed, climbing on top of the covers and leaning back against the headboard, careful not to disturb James. He watched his sleeping form for a long time, the blankets rising and falling with James’ breaths, a sharp, agonizing pain in Steve’s chest for the man beside him.

Finally, gently, he reached out and tugged the comforter down just enough to reveal James’ face. His dark eyelashes cast shadows against his cheeks, flushed even as he slept, lips dry and pink and slightly parted. James stirred at the movement, eyelids fluttering open to reveal those arctic blue eyes, still breathtakingly startling in their intensity even after all these years.

There was just one stray lock of unruly hair draping down over his forehead, and Steve couldn’t help it. He had to reach out and brush it out of James’ eyes, fingers lingering to trail down the side of his face, palm cupping the edge of his strong jaw.

James closed his eyes, mouth quirking into a sleepy smile as he leaned into the touch. God, how many times had Steve touched him this way, how many times had James smiled at him just like this as they woke up on a lazy Saturday, the two of them making love before they even shared so much as a word.

_ “Good morning,” _ James would say smugly, once they were finished, curled around each other beneath the warmth of the covers.

_ “Good morning to you too,” _ Steve would reply, stretching his limbs long and arching his back like a cat, James’ eyes traveling down the length of his body with intent, fingers tracing down his chest, already wanting again, and Steve had never felt so confident, so desired, so loved.

Presently, Steve snatched his hand away, James’ eyes snapping open to display his confusion, searching Steve’s face for an explanation. He blinked, gaze sweeping across the room before he seemed to remember himself, and it was impossible to miss the bright flash of pain in his eyes, the regret, but it wasn’t real. James didn’t feel that way anymore; it was just all he could remember.

“Hey,” James greeted quietly.

“Hey,” Steve returned, forcing a smile.

“You find anything?”

He sighed. “Nothing that tells us what happened to you yet.”

“You find anything out about Natasha?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but Steve could hear the anguish in his voice.

“No.”

“Rumlow?” he nearly spat with disgust.

“No,” Steve stated, then took a deep breath to steel himself. James had mentioned remembering his intimate relationship with Rumlow, which had been well into the year James was missing from his memory. He had to have started remembering some things, and there wasn’t ever going to be a good time to ask, but Steve had to if he wanted to start digging closer to the truth. “James, I need to know what you remember about your captivity.”

James met his eye only briefly before casting his gaze away, licking his bottom lip and then drawing it between his teeth and worrying at it. He was quiet for a long time, eyes searching for something Steve couldn’t see, opening his mouth a few times but then reconsidering. He drew the covers around him more closely, protecting himself from enemies not present, but still out there somewhere, waiting, anticipating. It took nearly all of Steve’s strength not to gather the man up into his arms and pull him close, to keep him there and never let anything near him again.

“I don’t…” James finally began, voice small from his burrow in the fluffy down comforter. He pursed his lips and swallowed audibly before trying again. “I remember a table. I remember the needles. I remember seeing them and knowing it was going to hurt, like…like fire in my veins, but I don’t know what happened after.”

His breath was coming faster and he started to tremble, and Steve could tell he was fighting hard to keep his composure but didn’t want to interrupt him. 

“I remember a chair,” he went on, the words grating out of him like he was talking around swallowed shards of glass. “I was scared of the chair. They would put me in it and it was like lightening, and they would take me out of it, and they would ask me questions, but I couldn’t remember any of the answers, and they would cut me and try to make me remember. I think they were – I think they were testing me, to see how good it worked – and they cut me until I remembered and then – and then they’d – ”

“James,” Steve cut in firmly, and James startled, blinking and casting his gaze around the room, as if surprised to see himself in a guest suite and not a dark cave surrounded by horrors. “Hey. It’s okay, you’re safe here. Okay?” James nodded, lashes wet. “You don’t have to keep going.”

He shook his head, clenching his jaw.

“They said they wanted me to forget,” he went on determinedly, and Steve’s chest swelled with pride at how brave he was. “I think I – ” And now his eyes cast down, ashamed. “I think I called out for you. They said I was going to forget you. That I was going to forget everything, and obey, and become – ” He looked up, eyes bright with fear. “They said I was going to become the first of Hydra.”

Steve breathed very carefully, stomach swooping at just how dangerous this was, how close James had been to losing his life, how close he still was, if they didn’t get to the bottom of this.

“I remember seeing you,” James whispered. “I remember seeing you, and Brock, and Zola, Natasha. I don’t – ” He closed his eyes, tears finally falling. “I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know what’s real and what’s part of my nightmares.”

No longer able to resist, no longer wanting to, Steve crawled under the covers and slid close to James, who immediately reached for him, clinging to him desperately and pressing his face into Steve’s chest and belly. James was shaking with sobs, tears soaking through Steve’s shirt, hands gripping Steve’s side bruisingly, but he didn’t care. 

“Shh, you’re so strong,” he shushed James gently, running a soothing hand up and down his back, feeling the bumps of his spine from all the weight he’d lost. “You’re so strong and so brave. I’m so proud of you, you’re so brave…”

He kissed the top of his hair, uncaring if it was inappropriate or what it meant, how James would interpret it. James needed him, and Steve needed to hold him tight, to keep him close and keep him safe. He kept repeating comforting words into James’ ear, words he meant with every fibre of his being, every ounce of his soul, until James finally calmed, hiccuping with residual sobs and snuffling tiredly.

“Steve?” James called quietly, picking his head up and meeting his gaze, eyes pleading. “I don’t remember leaving you, but I do remember missing you, and being too stubborn to tell you. I remember being jealous, because you were working so hard and everyone was so impressed by you, everyone was noticing you, when before you’d been just mine.”

Steve held his breath, unable to speak, to even begin to comprehend how someone like James – so handsome and charming and athletic, a hotshot superagent with the whole world in front of him – could be jealous of someone like Steve.

“I remember how happy you were when you got promoted,” he said, then shook his head regretfully. “And I pretended to be happy too, but I hated it because I knew it meant more time away from me when you were already spending every waking minute at the office, and I felt like such a fucking asshole for feeling that way and I blamed you for that too.”

“James – ” Steve tried, because this was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea, and one day James was going to remember leaving Steve, and he was going to remember why, and Steve was going to be brokenhearted all over again, maybe this time beyond repair.

“I remember loving you,” he breathed, hot tears spilling down his cheeks, and Steve felt his own eyes burning, his heart stopped and bursting at the same time. “And I remember being in that hole and still loving you, and wishing I hadn’t been such a fucking coward because I was going to die and you were never going to know. I’m not brave, Steve, I’m a coward, because I’ve always loved you. And I might not know why I left, but I do know that.”

James was watching him, waiting for an answer, eyes full of hope and fear and love. Steve shook his head, fists bunched in James’ shirt, unsure if it was to keep him away or right where he was.

“James, I can’t,” Steve whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I can’t. If you left me again, I don’t think I could survive it.”

God, especially if he did it the same way: without a word, as if Steve and their relationship and the life they had built together meant nothing to him.

“I just…” Steve continued, trying to make James understand, to stop looking like Steve had just stabbed him right in the gut. “You’re confused, and there’s so much going on right now, so much yet to do. I just don’t…I don’t think this is a good idea. For either of us. Not…not right now.”

James watched him for a long moment, blue eyes searching, and Steve held his breath, waiting, until finally James looked away, nodding.

“I understand,” he said, and shifted back and away to the other side of the bed, his warmth and strength retreating until all Steve felt was cold and alone. James scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Steve, for being such a mess.”

Steve didn’t know if he meant then, or now, or both, but it didn’t matter. He offered James a reassuring smile. “Look, we’re going to get through this, and whatever happens after that…” He shrugged with one shoulder, offering a beacon of hope even if it might’ve been false, but James needed that right now.

“So what now?” James asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and glancing at Steve from over his shoulder.

“Now?” Steve asked, sighing deeply. “Tony’s still digging, but until he finds something, I need to lay low for a while. Fury’s got my number, and he is not going to let me get away with even misplacing a paperclip right now.” Then, he rolled his eyes at himself, not wanting to give any mixed signals, but he wasn’t going to risk James or give him a choice in this. “But until we get to the bottom of this, I want you to stay with me. I just…I don’t want you to be alone. Not until it’s safe.”

James smiled, sad and ironic. “Aye aye, Captain. Lead the way.”

* * *

They stopped at James’ apartment for him to pack a bag. Steve had never been there before, he didn’t even know where it was until they pulled up to the brick building, lucky enough to find parking only a block away. James invited him inside, moving into the bedroom to grab his things and leaving Steve to examine every part of his new life without Steve.

It was a small place, with just a living room, galley kitchen, and single bedroom. There weren’t any pictures on the walls, but at least it was painted, a soft yellow color that he assumed had either been there when James moved in, or Natasha had had a say in it. James had never cared for decorating, leaving Steve to make all those decisions and helping as asked without complaint.

The worn armchair James had always occupied in their apartment was out of place beside a sleek futon, a sci-fi novel stuffed in the cushions and James’ grandmother’s handmade knitted blanket draped across the back. Steve trailed his fingers over the soft yarn, remembering endless nights of James curled up with a book with this blanket over his shoulders, expressions flitting across his face as he read. Steve had always been able to tell when he’d hit an exciting part of the book, or read something sad, James laughing at something funny.

“Ready,” James called softly, Steve turning to catch James watching him, and he wondered how long he’d been standing there. He was holding an overnight bag stuffed full, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Chinese?” Steve offered, just for something to say, and James cast his gaze to the ceiling, presumably to ask God for strength.

“Fuck no,” he replied, leading them out of the apartment. “We’re ordering pizza. That place still open down the street?”

“Antonella’s?” Steve asked. “Yeah. They still make that disgusting cheeseburger one you like too.”

“Don’t knock it  ’til you’ve tried it,” James warned, but Steve rolled his eyes.

“I have tried it,” he reminded him patiently. “Every time you get it and force me to try it because you’re convinced  _ this  _ is the time I’ll like it.”

“Tastes change,” James told him, without looking at him. “Maybe this time it’ll be good.”

Steve smiled. “Maybe.”

* * *

“I swear, you’ll like it, just try it,” James was saying, nearly an hour later as they headed up the stairs to Steve’s apartment, each carrying a small pizza in their hands. Steve leveled him with a gaze before placing his box of normal, edible pizza on top of James’ so he could reach into his pocket for his keys. James bit back a grin, a sparkle in his eye. “Just a bite. Come on.”

Just as they reached their floor, Steve’s neighbor stepped out into the hall, locking her door behind her with a load of laundry in her hands.

“Hey, Steve!” Sharon chirped with a bright smile, the same Sharon that worked as a Junior Intelligence Data Analyst at S.H.I.E.L.D. She nearly did a double-take at the sight of James, aware of their history and hardly able to hide her surprise. Thank God she wasn’t a spy. “Oh, hi, James! Good to see you.”

“It’s good to be seen,” James replied with a smile.

“Big plans tonight?” she asked, indicating their pizza boxes and liters of soda.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes playfully. “Don’t know how I’m going to survive all the excitement.”

“Well, you guys have probably had enough excitement lately, I bet,” she stated sympathetically, voice kind. James smiled tightly, shifting uncomfortably and glancing away.

“Yeah,” Steve said, picking up on James’ unease and quickly deflecting by motioning to her laundry. “Hey, you know you’re welcome to use my machine. Might be cheaper than the one in the basement.”

“Might be?” she asked with a laugh. “What’s the price?”

“A cup of coffee?”

She ducked her head, smiling shyly. “Thanks, but, um…I already have a load in downstairs, and uh…I don’t want to butt in on your exciting plans and all, so.”

“Right,” Steve said, James frowning behind him as his gaze bounced between the two intelligence analysts. “Well, have a good night.”

“You too,” she responded, heading down the hall before abruptly turning back. “Oh, and I think you left your stereo on.”

“Oh.” Steve glanced down the hall towards his apartment. “Right. Thank you.”

“Yep.”

“We’re going to talk about that,” James stated, eyeing Steve’s door suspiciously, “but first, we didn’t leave your stereo on.”

“Talk about what?” Steve asked, as James carefully lowered all of their things to the floor and crouched down to unzip his backpack and withdraw a handgun. He’d had to turn in his service pistol while on sick leave, but he owned several weapons, and Steve wasn’t surprised to see it. He  _ was  _ surprised, however, when James retrieved another gun, something smaller and more compact, and handed it to Steve.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been. James had never treated Steve as if he were fragile or needed protection; in fact, Steve had trained with this very gun in his hands at the shooting rage, James standing behind him, guiding his hands and adjusting his stance while murmuring instructions into his ear. Steve had hardly been able to pay attention with such a distraction right at his back. The first time he’d fired, the recoil had taken Steve by surprise and sent him straight into James’ chest, whose gentle, rumbling laugh could be felt right through his back, sending shivers up and down his spine.

That had been their third date, and the first night they’d had sex. Who had known the shooting range could be such an aphrodisiac?

“You know what,” James accused now, voice low as they made their way down the hall. There was an old song playing softly through the closed door, growing louder as they approached. “You and the intern.”

“She’s not an intern,” Steve shot back, appalled that James could interpret anything going on between them. Sharon was his employee, for God’s sake, and she kind of had the wrong parts and her name wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes. “She hasn’t been an intern in three years.”

“You don’t have to get so defensive,” James said, tossing Steve an unimpressed glance over his shoulder as they reached the door. “Although it is very telling.”

“I’m not getting defensive!” Steve hissed.

“Quiet,” James commanded, turned his ear towards the door, but all Steve could hear was the music.“There’s someone inside. Stay behind me.”

Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest, never having been in a situation like this before despite working at an intelligence agency. He was a desk jockey, as Fury had so aptly put it; he didn’t deal with the aggression and violence. The only self-defense training he’d had was spending a few hours in a boxing ring with with James, and that had been years ago. James shouldn’t trust him to be at his six, not especially with a loaded gun, but there didn’t seem to be a choice, and Steve was not a coward, so he nodded with a calming breath and held the gun the way James had shown him all those years ago.

James nodded at Steve to unlock the door, who hastily complied as quietly as possible, only a fine tremor in his hand. Once the door was unlocked, James slowly, cautiously turned the knob, easing it open noiselessly, then crept down the front hallway to the living room with just as much stealth and grace. Steve kept close behind, trying to mirror James’ technique and praying hard not to screw up and get them both blown to smithereens.

Pausing at the end of the hall, James carefully peeked around the corner, frowning at what he found. “Fury?”

Steve lowered his weapon, coming around James to see the man sitting slumped in the armchair. James held out a hand, pressing it to Steve’s arm and keeping him at bay, gun still aimed tight in Fury’s direction.

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” Steve stated.

“You really think I’d need one?” Fury asked. “My wife kicked me out.”

“Cut the shit,” James barked, jaw clenched and body coiled tight with barely restrained anger. “What are you doing here?”

James flicked the light on, Steve gaping at the sight of his superior beaten and bloodied in his apartment. James’ expression didn’t even change, remaining hard as Fury reached for the lampshade and pulled the chain, blanketing them once more in darkness. The director turned his cellphone towards them, a text on the screen reading  _ ears everywhere.  _ Steve couldn’t help but glance around, wondering who in God’s name would bug his apartment, why, and when?

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” Fury went on, as he wrote another text, this time reading  _ SHIELD compromised,  _ “but I had no place else to crash.”

“Who else knows about your wife?” Steve asked.

_ You and me, _ the phone read, as Fury said, “Just…my friends.”

“We’re not fucking friends,” James spat, knuckles white on his weapon as Fury stood and took a step closer.

“That’s up to you,” he replied, so close now James’ gun was pressed right to his chest, both men’s eyes blazing. Steve was about to step in when there was a sudden series of deafening blasts – gunshots – and Fury was sprawling to the ground, Steve’s walls and picture frames exploding behind the director.

“James!” Steve cried, voice cracking, his heart fluttering and leaping in his chest like a trapped bird in a cage.

“That wasn’t me!” he shouted, grasping Steve’s arm and nearly tossing him to the ground behind them and into the hall, before grabbing Fury’s wrist and dragging him into the hall too.

“Sir!” Steve half-exclaimed, half-asked, kneeling down beside the other man. Fury held out a shaking hand, opening his palm to reveal a flash drive. The intelligence analyst exchanged a glance with James before plucking it out of the director’s hand.

“Don’t…trust anyone,” he uttered, before his eyes slipped closed.

Abruptly, Steve’s front door opened, both men raising their weapons in rapid fashion. Sharon jumped back in surprise, holding her service pistol in one hand, the other raised in the air in surrender.

“What was that?” she asked, gasping as she caught sight of Fury unconscious on the floor. “Director Fury!”

“Call central!” James commanded, as she knelt beside Fury and checked his pulse before turning to his wounds. She immediately pulled out her cellphone, talking quickly to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent on the other side of the line.

Steve watched with eyes the size of saucers as James crossed the room to the window, carefully peeking out from the side of it. “I got a twenty on the shooter! He’s across the – ”

The window burst in a spray of wood and glass as more shots were fired from the roof across the alleyway. James shouted with surprise as he turned away, raising one hand to protect his face. There was a moment’s pause wherein James leapt right back up into position, aiming out the window with his award-winning sniper’s eye and exchanging fire, before another burst of gunfire sounded, this time relentless in its fury.

Bullets rained down through the window and walls in rapid fire, spraying the apartment, destroying Steve’s books and furniture and television, the radio that had been playing cutting off as it toppled to the floor. James was on the ground, arms wrapped around his head – there was blood, Steve could see blood, on James’ back and arms, but he couldn’t see how badly James was wounded, could only tell that at least he was alive by the way his body flinched with each report.

Sharon was covering Fury’s body with her own, gun held tight in her hand. She grabbed Steve’s wrist, jerking him away from the open hallway. Already crouched down, he fell back on his ass, but twisted his arm away from her, needing to keep one eye on James, even if he couldn’t reach him, he just needed to see him, to see he was alive, to see if – if – 

The sudden silence that followed was deafening. Steve’s ears were ringing, but through the tinnitus he could hear sirens wailing closeby, see red and blue flashing lights illuminating the street through the window in waves. James was still on the floor, completely still, and Steve’s heart leapt into his throat until – 

“Nobody move,” James commanded, voice firm but breathless. “Just…give it a minute.”

“Are you hurt?” Steve asked.

James raised his head just enough to peer at Steve from over the nest of his arms, blue eyes flashing with anger. “Take cover, you dumbass! You want another hole in your head?”

Leaning back around the corner, Steve dropped his head back against the wall with a dull thud and breathed a sigh of relief. James would only be acting like an asshole if he was all right.

“Sharon?” James called.

“I’m okay,” she stated shakily, from her position on top of Fury. She leaned back and sat up, revealing dark smears of blood on her torso and arms, gazing down at herself with horror, then to Fury, before turning her wide-eyed expression on Steve. She searched his face, eyes pleading, but Steve had no idea what to do; he too was just a data analyst who had never seen any action, the two of them staring at each other openly in shock and disbelief.

Suddenly, there was a hand on Steve’s shoulder, startling him so hard he nearly jumped a foot in the air. James held up both hands placatingly, eyes shining with worry as he swept his gaze over Steve’s form, checking for any wounds or signs of distress. He turned to Sharon next, taking in the sight of her bloodied clothes, the still form of Fury on the floor.

“Are either of you hurt?” he asked quietly, moving to kneel down on the other side of the director, one hand on his wrist and the other at his neck, checking for a pulse at either site.

“No,” they chorused, Steve watching James carefully. There were scratches all over the left side of James’ face from where the window had shattered, tears in his clothes and more blood seeping through, not deep enough to mortally wound but deep enough for Steve to be worried. He asked, “What about you?”

James distractedly wiped at the blood dripping into his eye. “I’m fine.”

“And Fury?” Steve asked, the tremor in his voice audible. James met his eye, face solemn, but didn’t respond right away. At his hesitation, Steve’s breath came faster, lungs tightening with what he was sure wasn’t asthma but would turn into an attack if he didn’t get a handle on his nerves. “Is he dead?”

Before James could answer, there were footsteps stomping loudly down the hall, a barrage of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents flooding the apartment like a swarm of bees. Steve recognized some of them as James’ S.T.R.I.K.E. team members, but they still came in with guns raised, barking at them to raise their hands and kneel even though they’d been the victims here. James readily complied, Steve and Sharon exchanging a nervous glance as they did the same.

They remained quietly on their knees while the apartment was cleared, before one of the agents turned to another agent at the door, saying, “Tell EMS they can come up,” then approached the trio.

“Rollins,” James greeted, expression unreadable as he stood, Steve and Sharon following suit.

“What the hell happened?” Jack Rollins asked, eyeing Fury dubiously. They backed away when a man and a woman with a stretcher came rushing in, immediately tending to the director on the floor.

“No clue,” James stated. “Guy started shooting through the window, hit Fury and shot up the apartment.”

“Why was Fury here?” Rollins inquired, eyes narrowing as they traveled over James, Steve, and Sharon.

“I don’t know,” James replied.

“What are you doing here?” he shot back. “Your bags are in the hallway. You two getting back together?”

“None of your fucking business,” Steve snapped, outraged at the line of questioning, at witnessing his boss’ death right in front of his eyes, at his destroyed apartment, at the direction of his life right now, and this asshole was the last straw.

“Hey, just asking.” Rollins grinned, holding his hands out in surrender. He rolled his eyes at James. “Didn’t mean to upset the missus.”

“You want to leave here lying down too?” Steve asked hotly, standing up taller and taking a step closer to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see James cross his arms over his chest, just the slightest upturn of his lips indicating his satisfaction and amusement. Rollins looked to his former team mate for help, but James only raised his eyebrows.

“All right, all right,” Rollins conceded, then quickly glanced at Sharon. “And what are you doing here? This some kind of 50 Shades of Grey thing?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” James muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

Sharon, bless her heart, leveled Rollins with a glare that would wither houseplants. “I live next door. I heard the first shots and responded. You know, if you really want to know what happened, maybe you should stop asking questions and start listening.”

Mercifully, Rollins seemed to take Sharon’s advice to heart and took their statements, then released them to another S.T.R.I.K.E. team agent to transport them to the hospital for treatment. James didn’t even argue like Steve expected, just sighed with a weary nod, making Steve even more worried, but he supposed there wasn’t much room for argument when James was covered in cuts and scrapes, probably still with shards of glass lodged in parts of him, the wound on his forehead steadily oozing through the wadded up gauze EMS provided.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll needs stitches,” the nurse at the hospital stated, as she peered at the cut on James’ forehead, not without a hint of surprise in her voice. She glanced at the bloodied gauze sitting on a metal tray table nearby curiously, then shrugged. “Must’ve hit it just right to get all that blood out of such a small wound.”

“So am I free to get out of here?” James asked, sitting shirtless on an exam bed in a private room at Metro-General Hospital’s Emergency Department, his scarred arm in full view. James had only hesitated for a moment before removing his shirt earlier, and while the nurse had looked, she hadn’t reacted, much to Steve’s relief. “On account of you fixing me up so good, Miss Temple.”

“It’s Claire.” She eyed him suspiciously, the scrapes and bruises on his body much less worse than what his destroyed shirt would have indicated. “You should probably put on a shirt first.”

James grinned, wide and sly. “But then how will you enjoy the view?”

“James,” Steve cut in, from where he was standing in the corner of the room, exasperated but also relieved to see James’ confidence despite his scarring, however obnoxious he may be.

Amused despite herself, the nurse struggled not to smile. “I’ll live, Romeo. Let me get your discharge papers –  _ and a shirt –  _ and then you’ll be free to go.”

As soon as she left, James deflated, shoulders hunching forward and hands clasped in his lap, head bowing down with a sharp exhalation. Steve stepped forward to stand in front of him, placing one hand on top of James’ and giving a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?” Steve asked softly.

“Yeah,” he replied as he lifted his face to meet Steve’s eye. He looked as tired as Steve felt, face pale, dark circles under his eyes, but he managed a weak, reassuring smile. “Think Tony would mind if we crashed at his place?”

Steve was about to answer when James’ face twisted into a hard, cold anger and he suddenly stood, startling Steve into drawing his hand away, but James wasn’t looking at him. Steve turned to see Natasha standing in the doorway, eyes red and puffy as if she’d been crying, but her face was carefully blank. The intelligence analyst felt his hackles raise, unknowingly placing himself slightly in front of James, as if to protect him.

She glanced at James’ scars only for a second, but Steve could swear he saw a flash of sorrow in her eyes.

“Fury’s dead,” she stated without preamble, and Steve felt like the breath had been punched out of him. “Tell me about the shooter.”

“I didn’t get a good look,” James replied, jaw clenched so hard Steve was afraid he’d break his teeth. Steve could feel the heat of him against his side, body practically vibrating, although Steve wasn’t sure if it was from rage or fear, or maybe both. “It was dark. He was on the roof across the alley, but I’m sure you know that already.”

“You hit him,” Natasha told them. “There was blood on the rooftop, but not enough for a kill shot. The bullets are untraceable.”

“And?” James asked, coldly.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “We are not the enemy here, James.”

“Now why would I think that?” He grinned, a snarl curling his lip.

“Why was Fury in your apartment?” she demanded, turning to Steve.

“I don’t know,” he replied, chin raised defiantly.

Her gaze traveled between the two of them, jaw working and eyes blazing, and she opened her mouth to say something when Brock Rumlow appeared in the doorway behind her. Her expression turned impassive at the blink of an eye, but Steve didn’t miss the way she shifted away from him.

Rumlow was obviously working, wearing his dark tactical pants and an earpiece, guns strapped to either side of his torso. Peeking out from the bottom of Rumlow’s short-sleeved, black tee shirt was a bandage, a linear line of red seeping through. Behind Steve, James clutched his scarred shoulder with his opposite hand, turning slightly away as if shielding himself, then suddenly went very still, so that Steve didn’t even know if he was breathing.

There was a brief pause wherein Rumlow’s gaze assessed all three of them, disturbingly violative with Steve suspecting what he did about the man, before landing on James and saying, “They want you back at S.H.I.E.L.D., Buck.”

Steve felt more than saw James’ flinch away at the casual way Rumlow said his nickname, Steve himself bristling at the endearment even though he knew his reaction was exactly what Rumlow had intended.

“We’re going home,” Steve stated firmly, before James could even respond, because there was no way on God’s green Earth that Steve was letting James anywhere near S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, not especially with Rumlow and Natasha.

“They want you now,” Rumlow insisted, ignoring Steve entirely.

“Okay,” James whispered, more terror in that small, quiet word than Steve had ever heard, and he grabbed James wrist in a vice-like hold before the man could even move.

“No,” he commanded, then rounded on Rumlow, pointing one long, threatening finger. “My apartment was just shot up with us inside of it. We almost died. It is two o’clock in the fucking morning; we haven’t eaten, we haven’t slept, and I’m taking James, and we’re going home. I’m hungry, and I’m tired, and we are not doing this right now. Whatever it is, it will wait until the morning.”

Rumlow watched them for a moment, until he rolled his eyes and held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll tell Pierce,” he sighed, turning to Natasha. “Romanoff.”

“Rumlow,” she returned, eyes tracking him as he walked out of the room. She turned back to the two men, glare fixed on Steve. “You’re a terrible liar,” she announced, then stalked out, pushing past Claire on her way, who frowned at Natasha’s retreating form.

“Um,” the nurse began, taking in the sight of James, looking shaken and alarmingly blank at the same time, then turned to Steve questioningly. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” Steve replied, releasing his iron grip on James’ wrist and sliding his hand down to grasp James’ in his own. He indicated the clipboard in her hands, the promised shirt – a blue scrub top – draped over one arm. “Those for us?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding unconvinced but willing to let it go. She handed the shirt to James, who took it with a murmured thanks and robotically tugged it on over his head. To James, she said, “I need to speak with you privately.”

“You can say it in front of him,” he told her quietly with a nod in Steve’s direction.

“It’s a private health matter,” she stated, but he only offered her an unimpressed stare. “Fine. I wanted to verify the medications you put on your intake form. You’re taking Prozac, propranolol, dexmethylphenidate, and temazepam?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Why? I didn’t spell ’em right or something?”

“No, you spelled them fine.” She shook her head, brow furrowed in confusion and more than a little bit of concern. “You have a history of PTSD?”

“Yeah,” James readily admitted.

“Do you have a history of depression?” she asked.

“I mean…I guess?” he replied uncertainly.

“What about ADHD?”

“No,” he said, this time more firmly, now sounding confused himself.

“And you’re taking all of these at the same time? At these dosages?”

James shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

“Under whose direction?” she asked, avoiding the answer.

“Arnim Zola,” he said slowly, turning to meet Steve’s eye, who was sure the look of dawning realization and impending dread on James’ face was reflected in his own expression. “He’s my psych doctor.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psych doctor,” Steve added forebodingly.

Claire regarded them carefully. “Look, I’m no doctor, but this doesn’t seem right to me. You’re on incredibly high doses of depressants and stimulants, for conditions you don’t even have. The major concerns here are effects to your mood and memory.”

All of the color drained from James’ face, and he sat down heavily on the exam bed behind him. Steve squeezed James’ hand reassuringly, pushing aside his own fears and turning to Claire with as level a head as he could and asking, “What kind of effects?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, obviously uncomfortable with the implication she was being asked to make, but unwilling to compromise her ethics. “These drugs at these dosages might make one…compliant. Hyper-focused. Aggressive. Possibly affecting the recalls of memories, altering the memories themselves, and changing the way you respond to them.”

“Fuck,” James blurted.

“Like I said, I’m not a doctor, and I’m not  _ your _ doctor,” she repeated. “Maybe he has legitimate reasons for prescribing these meds to you…” she went on, but even as she said it, her expression betrayed her doubt. “But…you might want to get a second opinion.”

* * *

The cab ride to Stark Tower was silent. James was staring out the window with unseeing eyes, his body humming with a fine tremor. One of his fingers of his right hand was absently tracing back and forth over a thin stripe of white, scarred skin on the top of his left hand, over and over again. He looked so small and fragile sitting there, so lost, and Steve reached for him, unable to sit idly by any longer.

James jerked away at the movement, slamming into the door of the cab so hard the driver gave a concerned look in the rearview mirror. Steve snatched his hand away, accidentally knocking his elbow into the other door, and offered the cab driver an apologetic glance.

“Sorry,” James breathed, unable to meet Steve’s eye. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve reassured him, this time telegraphing his movements by slowly moving his hand until he wrapped his fingers around James’ hand, who squeezed his fingers tightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Did Stark answer the phone?”

Steve startled at the question, seeing as James had been standing right beside him on the hospital sidewalk as Steve had hailed a cab and spoke to Tony on the phone at the same time. “Yes, he did. He knows we’re coming.”

“He didn’t mind?” He was staring off in the middle distance again, there but not there, and Steve squeezed his fingers, James’ gaze rising to meet his eye. “He didn’t mind, did he?”

“No, he didn’t mind,” Steve replied, and James only nodded, turning back to the window. Steve watched his profile for just a moment, opening his mouth to say something, although he wasn’t sure what. He wouldn’t have a chance to figure it out, however, as James spoke again, so quietly Steve could barely hear him.

“It was Rumlow.”

“Who?” Steve asked, frowning with confusion.

“On the roof,” James clarified, turning haunted eyes on Steve. “He killed Fury.”

Steve cast a nervous glance a the cab driver, keeping his voice low as to not be overheard. “How do you know?”

“I hit him,” James stated. “In the arm, when we were exchanging fire. I saw it.”

The bandage on Rumlow’s arm, Steve realized, heart pounding. “Are you sure?”

James nodded silently, staring at the seat in front of him blankly. Steve sat back heavily, gripping James’ hand hard as he digested the information. Christ, if James had gone with Rumlow at the hospital, what would the bastard have done with him? Killed him, or – or taken him somewhere, back to another hole to do God-knew-what where no one would ever find him.

The cab stopped, Steve paying the driver with one hand, the other still in James’, who remained sitting there as if unaware they had even arrived. Steve opened the door, but James still didn’t move, so he gave his hand a gentle tug. Finally, James blinked, noticing the motionless buildings around them, then turning to Steve with a surprised look on his face at the open door.

“Come on,” Steve said, smiling softly. “I know you’re tired, but we’re in the home stretch.”

Smiling with relief, James slid out of the car behind Steve. There was a doorman even at this hour, who greeted them courteously, albeit tiredly, and then they rode the polite British elevator up to Stark’s private lounge all the way at the top of the Tower. Tony was sitting at his computer, the air smelling of strong coffee, an empty cup beside Tony’s workstation. He didn’t look like he’d been interrupted from sleep – in fact, he looked pretty awake, if not a little manic.

“Wow,” Tony immediately said, pausing in his frantic typing and peeking his head over his computer monitor. “You guys look like shit.”

“You look pretty wired,” Steve shot back, as Tony stood and made his way towards the bar. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Tony responded automatically, then offered an exaggerated cringe at Steve and James’ wince. “Sorry, bad choice of words, and I’m not sure how much you’re going to like this, but we’re about to speak ill of the dead too.” He indicated an extremely fancy and complicated-looking espresso maker sitting on the counter. “Coffee?”

“No – ” Steve started to decline, when James stepped forward, saying, “What do you mean, speak ill of the dead?”

“I mean,” Tony began, loading whole coffee beans into a grinder, then speaking loudly over the machine as it ground the beans at an obnoxious volume, “that I found some information in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, and it is not looking good for your buddy Fury.”

James slammed his hand over the switch to the coffee grinder, silence piercing the air. His expression was dark with intent, jaw clenched and entire body taut with tension. “Start talking.”

“James,” Steve gently warned, placing a hand on his elbow and pulling him away from Tony a little, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

“You’re right, I’ve probably had too much coffee anyway,” Tony said airily, shifting away and grabbing a bottle of scotch off the bar top. “Time for something a little harder.” He grabbed three glasses, pouring two and then pausing at the third, bottle tipped sideways but not pouring yet as he slid his eyes sideways at James. “Think you can control yourself this time a little better than an eighteen-year-old sorority girl at her first frat party?”

Wrapping a broad hand around the glass, James said, voice hard and dark, “Pour it. I’m not taking those fucking pills anymore.”

Tony’s gaze shifted to Steve. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“The nurse at the hospital,” Steve explained, then sighed as he shook his head in near disbelief. “She said something wasn’t right. We think…the doctor’s involved in this, for whatever reason.”

“Wow,” Tony gaped at James, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. “It really isn’t your night, is it?” He poured a generous serving into James’ glass, pushing it towards him so fast some of it spilled onto the counter. “Jesus, take it,” he said, then held up his own glass in a toast.  _ “Na zdrowie.” _

They clinked glasses, both men knocking back their drinks. James swallowed hard and wiped his mouth with the back of the same hand still holding his glass before depositing it heavily onto the counter. “That’s Polish.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Tony countered, pouring them both another glass and then cocking his head towards the computer. “Let me bring up the data. In the meantime, what was Fury doing in your apartment?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Steve replied, taking his own drink and following Tony to his workstation. Tony sat down at his stool, Steve and James standing behind either of the man’s shoulders. “He said S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised, and not to trust anyone, but we didn’t get any further than that.” Abruptly, Steve shoved his drink at James, who took it hastily, before Steve jammed his hand in his jeans’ pocket. “Oh, and he gave me this.”

He withdrew the thumb drive, holding it out to Tony, who took it with eager hands and excitement in his eyes. “What have we here?” Tony asked, examining the drive as if it would tell him everything he wanted to know just by looking at it. He shoved it into the computer’s USB port. “Encrypted out the wazoo – as expected – but I’ll let J.A.R.V.I.S. work on that while I show you what I already have.”

“Who’s J.A.R.V.I.S.?” James asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“My A.I.,” Tony responded simply. When there was no response, he glanced at James over one shoulder, then at Steve over his other, both men’s expression blank. “Artificial Intelligence?”

“We know what it – ” James began, cutting himself off with a sigh, as Steve said, _ “Tony.” _

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” the polite British elevator voice chimed from somewhere in the ceiling. “I am Mr. Stark’s home computer system. I manage the tower, from heating and cooling to lighting, security, and maintenance. I also possess vast amounts of scientific knowledge and assist Sir with his research as needed. I can tend to any of your needs at a single request, quickly and efficiently.”

There was a short pause, before James asked, “How lonely  _ were  _ you, before Pepper?”

“Eh,” Tony shrugged. “It was more boredom. Now she makes me  _ do stuff _ , like  _ go to Tahiti _ .”

“Poor you,” Steve deadpanned.

“So,” Tony went on, the keys on his keyboard clicking loudly as he typed away furiously. “I pulled some files from your intern’s server – which, coincidentally, I noticed you don’t have access to even though you’re Intelligence Overlord.”

“She’s not my – ” Steve started, then sighed at James’ pointed look. “It’s the Batroc files, is that what you’re talking about?”

“They picked up Batroc last night in a not-so-safe house in Algiers,” Tony told them, pointing to a live feed of an interrogation, Batroc sitting in a chair across from a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. With a swipe of his hand, the video slid off the screen, Sharon’s work files replacing them. “The working theory is that your director hired him to hijack the ship as a distraction so Fury could steal and sell intelligence – presumably what Natasha picked up, but she’s not on their radar. Deal went south and Fury ended up dead.”

“Before this, I wouldn’t think that could be true,” James stated, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”

Steve’s eyes scanned over the data, quickly picking up the most important details and piecing them together. Batroc had been contacted by e-mail and paid by wire transfer; the money had been transferred through multiple accounts, the last one registered to a dead man – a dead man that had lived next door to Nick Fury’s mother.

Sharon Carter had made the connection, with the help of Secretary Pierce. Fury had denied him access because he didn’t want Steve to make that connection; Steve had been so focused on his indignation at being locked out of the Batroc files, it had never even occurred to him it could be a connection he should have made before the mission even started.

_ He’d _ been the one to sign off on the Lemurian Star intelligence in the first place. It was his job to vet the information, to review each file with a fine-toothed comb to make sure his employees didn’t miss anything, and he hadn’t done it, not well enough.

“No mention of Natasha anywhere?” James asked quietly, but Steve barely heard him, and didn’t have the wherewithal to wonder if James was worried about her, despite everything.

“Nope,” Tony replied, Steve’s eyes still traveling over the text.

James didn’t react, just skimmed his tongue over the front of his teeth. “Do you think that drive has the intelligence on it that Fury wanted to sell?”

“If it was on him when he died, maybe,” Tony said, and Steve swore to himself right then and there that there was going to be no stone left unturned once he got his hands on the data. He was never going to let James down again, never allow him to be hurt or taken advantage of or taken away.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Tony added. “In the meantime, go get some sleep. You both look like you’re awake through sheer force of will.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, running a weary hand down his face. “We really appreciate you letting us stay.”

“What, are you kidding?” Tony asked, with barely a glance in their direction. “I have plenty of space. It was very lonely. I kept building empty rooms to compensate for the emptiness in my heart.”

“Don’t let Pepper hear you say that,” Steve shot back.

“This was before Pepper,” Tony assured them, waving his hand in dismissal. “Which, by the way, thanks for getting her flowers. They’ve all I’ve heard about for the past twenty-four hours. Now, I have to punish you, by delivering one hundred bouquets of roses to her office.”

Steve frowned consideringly. “Somehow, I don’t feel like I’m the one being punished.”

“We’ll see what Pepper has to say about that,” Tony stated smugly.

Steve and James could only exchange a dubious glance at that.

* * *

They made their way with J.A.R.V.I.S.’ guidance to the same guest room James had recovered in just the day before. The windows were tinted dark, the lighting in the living room a soft glow and the air lightly scented with cotton. James entered first, Steve closing the door behind them and leaning against it heavily, closing his eyes and sighing with a breath that started all the way at his toes.

Steve was tired, a type of exhaustion that sunk through his skin and straight into the marrow of his bones. He felt as if he could sleep for days, forever, maybe, if it meant closing his eyes and not having to think about the people he worked for – the government, his own country – betraying him, betraying his loved ones, using them and hurting them and damning the consequences for the supposed greater good.

He opened his eyes to find James watching him. Steve took in the field agent’s appearance in turn; he was still in that hospital scrub top, jeans ripped at one of the knees and the skin beneath scraped raw from when he’d hit the floor, some tears in a few more places. They were stained a deep, dark red from kneeling beside Fury’s bleeding body. His arms were peppered with cuts from the shattered glass window, hair stringy and tangled with grit and more blood.

Steve looked at himself. He had managed to only scrape his hands on some glass on the floor, his clothes rumpled and stinking of sweat. He realized there was blood on his shirt and pants that was not his own: Fury’s, and maybe James’ too. A dead man’s and a man who could’ve also been dead, along with Steve and even Sharon too, if the night had ended differently, a night that should have never happened in the first place if Steve had been doing his fucking job.

He had to get out of these clothes. Abruptly, he pulled his shirt over his head, swiftly moving into the kitchen and throwing it right in the sleek silver trash can, the lid opening and closing with a metallic slam. He toed his shoes off and took off his pants, underwear, and socks at the same time, stuffing everything into the garbage right after it. He stood naked, arms breaking out in gooseflesh, shivering despite the cozy temperature of the room.

There was blood on his skin, on his arms and his abdomen and knees, smears of red against his pale skin. He wanted it off of him but didn’t want to touch it at the same time, shaking hands hovering over himself for a moment before he turned and strode out of the kitchen, nearly knocking into James, who had been watching from the doorway.

“Steve – ” James started, but Steve only moved past him and down the hall, into the bathroom. He needed to shower.

James was right behind him; Steve could feel his eyes on him as he threw the glass shower door open so hard he was surprised it didn’t crack. He didn’t even give it a second glance, reaching inside to turn on the water, clumsy fingers hardly able to even grasp the handles. He let out a cry of frustration, finally getting the water on and turning it as hot as it would go.

“Steve,” James’ soothing voice tried again, the man standing behind him but not too close, hands open and posture nonthreatening. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay, Steve, it’s okay.”

“It is  _ not  _ okay,” Steve choked out, voice edged with hysteria as he spun around. “Fury is dead. They want  _ us  _ dead – they want – they want you – they want  _ you _ so they can – so they can – ”

He could still hear James’ screams echoing throughout his apartment, in his head, see the strips of skin sliced right out of his arm, the angry scars white and pink against his smooth, golden skin running red with blood.

“I’m right here,” James told him, reaching out and gently taking Steve’s hands in his and bringing them up to press Steve’s palms against James’ face, the smooth skin of his cheeks juxtaposed to the rough stubble of his jaw. “We’re right here together. Okay, Stevie? Just breathe for me, baby. Just breathe for me.”

Steve hadn’t even realized he was hyperventilating, big gasping breaths stuck in his throat and heart beating rabbit fast. James moved one of Steve’s hands to press against his chest, heart beating strong against his palm.

“Can you feel me?” James murmured, taking a deep breath in, slowly easing it out, chest undulating with purposeful emphasis. Steve nodded, trying to time his erratic breathing with James’, focusing on the steady rhythm to ebb away his panic. “Feel me, baby. Right here. Breathe for me. Come on. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve rasped, when he could speak again, closing his eyes tight and feeling the hot tears spill over.

“It’s not your fault,” James assured him, voice unbearably kind, before Steve felt palms against his cheeks, thumbs brushing away his tears. “I’m just sorry you got dragged into this.”

“I should’ve seen it,” Steve said, pulling himself away from James, nearly tripping over the edge of the shower entrance. James brow furrowed in confusion. “Batroc. The wire transfers. Fury. I should have made the connection. I should have seen it.”

“Don’t do that,” the other man responded, expression wrought with a compassion Steve didn’t deserve. “How could you have seen it? There was nothing to look for.”

“It’s my fucking job see things that aren’t there!” Steve shouted irrationally, his voice bouncing off the tile walls, fists clenching at his side. He pulled one across his face, wiping away the angry tears that wouldn’t stop. “I’m supposed to make sure we aren’t missing anything, so the team stays  _ safe _ , so no one gets hurt, so you don’t – so you don’t –  _ James _ ,” he cried, helplessly. “James, I didn’t keep you safe. I’m so sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”

“Steve, Stevie, baby,” James soothed, placing a hand on either side of Steve’s face, pulling him close to look right into his eyes, cool arctic blue bright with a fiery indignation. “Listen to me. There was nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault. You have to let it go.”

“James,” he whispered brokenly, gripping James’ wrists tightly, as if he let go James would be pulled right out of his grasp and back into that hole in Afghanistan, never to be seen again.

“Let it go,” James murmured, warm breath right against Steve’s lips. “It’s okay. Just let it go.”

Steve would never be able to say who made the first move; all he knew was that in the next moment, James’ mouth was against his in a desperate slide of lips and tongue. Relief and fear and a thrill ran through Steve all at the same time, the smaller man clutching at the back of James’ shirt to pull him in and keep him at bay at the same time.

They shouldn’t be doing this, but Steve wanted it. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire life.

Without pausing to think, Steve moved backwards into the ornate, oversized shower, pulling James with him although he was still wearing all of his clothes, even his boots. James didn’t hesitate, just stumbled in after him, crowding Steve back up against the shower wall and pressing full length against him with the hard planes of his body, Steve still grasping at James’ clothes to pull him impossibly closer.

Placing two firm hands on James’ chest, Steve pushed him back to put some distance between them. Their lips parted with a wet sound, the water cascading down over them, James’ hair sticking to the sides of his face. He looked confused and unsure of himself for just a moment, until Steve reached for the hem of James’ shirt, tugging it up the hard lines of his abdomen and revealing the bruises and scrapes Steve had seen at the hospital, but hadn’t been allowed to touch.

After pulling off his wet shirt, James tossed it to the shower floor where it landed with a loud squelch. Steve reached out, reverently tracing up the curves and planes of James’ belly, over the peak of his nipples and the swell of his chest, finding every tender wound and smoothing over them as if he could wash them away with the water. Steves eyes followed his touch, gaze trailing over the marred skin of his left shoulder and arm, his hand following close behind as he traced tentative fingers over his bicep.

James placed a hand over Steve’s, the latter thinking the former would pull his hand away, but he only pressed Steve’s fingers more firmly against his skin, as if to say,  _ I am here. I survived, and I am here. _

Their eyes met, James’ big and round, afraid and brave at the same time, his James was always so brave.

“Are you sure?” James asked, voice barely audible over the strong spray from the showerhead, steam enveloping them before escaping out the still open glass door.

He shook his head.

_ No. _

_ But I love you. _

It must have been obvious in his eyes, because James smiled, small and tender and heartbreaking, before reaching down to unbuckle his belt and push his pants and underwear down, struggling to wriggle out of his soaked clothes. Steve couldn’t help it, he laughed, leaning back against the tiles and covering his mouth with one hand, James catching his eye and breaking out into a helpless grin.

The tension between them broke, both men laughing as James pulled his boots off, tugging so hard he slipped and nearly fell over. Steve steadied him with both hands, although he wasn’t sure if he was helping or hindering. Finally, the man managed to disrobe, tossing his boots to the other side of the shower and then following suit with his jeans and underwear, rising up to full height to stand before Steve, both men naked for the thousandth time and the first time.

James was still as gorgeous as he remembered, skin golden despite his lack of sun, Steve recalling endless summer days at Coney Island and Rockaway Beach. James’ skin would sparkle in the sun with sweat, freckles dusting his shoulders and the bridge of his nose and cheeks, looking impossibly cool as he sat on his towel in the sand with his Raybans on and dark hair slicked back with water, grinning at every girl that walked by, but his eyes were always on Steve.

He may have lost weight since his captivity, but James was still tall and solid, a force to be reckoned with. Steve couldn’t help his eyes trailing down the other man’s chest, his dark nipples pebbled under the water, the grooves of his abdomen and the vee of muscle tapering down to his groin. His cock lay half hard nestled in the coarse hairs there, balls dark and heavy, bracketed by powerful thighs above the smooth curve of his calves. A Greek statue standing right before him, marred with imperfections just like the statues in Rome, and just as beautiful.

Steve suddenly realized he wasn’t the only one taking in the view. James’ eyes were dark with desire as they swept over Steve’s nude form, who couldn’t help but blush at the scrutinizing gaze, heat burning his cheeks then traveling down his neck and chest. James’ trembling fingers brushed over the flush of red on his sternum, then across one small, pink nipple, butterfly light and making Steve shiver. His gaze followed his ministrations before coming up to meet Steve’s.

“I could never forget how beautiful you are,” James nearly whispered, and Steve thought, traitorously,  _ me too, me too. _

Silently, James closed the shower door, then reached for the shower gel and soft loofah, drizzling the soap over the sponge and working it in his hands until there was a rich lather, the sharp smell of lemon filling the air.

“Let me,” James asked and demanded at the same time, and Steve allowed himself to be shifted beneath the spray by gentle hands, facing the other man.

James tended to Steve more tenderly than Steve could ever remember being handled, the man running the loofah over his neck and down his chest and belly, then kneeling to reach his thighs and shins, careful in lifting each foot to scrub underneath, soap suds trailing behind and rinsing away.

Steve could feel his cock stiffening, body taut with anticipation as James’s warm breath ghosted over his member, but James ignored it completely as he traveled back up with the loofah, unbending himself gracefully to wash up one side. He grasped Steve’s hand and extended his arm to wash his armpit and then his arm all the way to his fingers, repeating the process on the other side.

By the time James turned him around to face the showerhead, Steve could feel himself slowly uncoiling, the tension in his body melting away as James washed the blood and grime and atrocities down the drain. The loofah ran gently on the back of his neck and down the curve of his spine to the small of his back, bubbles whisper soft as they slid down the swell of his ass and tickled the backs of his thighs.

James was standing so close Steve could feel his body heat even with the warmth of the water, a bite of static in the air between their bodies. Reaching around, James took Steve’s cock in hand, who let out a strained breath between his teeth at both the familiar and now unfamiliar contact. Still so careful, James washed his dick and balls, sliding the loofah between Steve’s legs, fingers pressing up against his perineum, making Steve rise up on his toes. He kept hold of Steve’s lengthening erection as he glided the loofah back behind him, coming up under the curve of his ass and between his cheeks, his lingering touch deliberate as he washed over his hole.

Slowly, James stepped in close, their bodies meeting skin to skin in such a way that made Steve let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. James’ touch was like a hot brand against his back, his hard cock even hotter as it pressed insistently against Steve’s hip. He began to lather himself, still pressed up against Steve as he did so, his lips warm and wet as they trailed down Steve’s neck, the elicit bite of teeth worrying at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Steve tipped his head to the side to allow the other man better access, his hands coming back to grip at James’ hips and pull him closer, thrusting up into the slick grip of James’ hand still on his dick.

James dropped the loofah and released his hold on Steve’s erection, who whimpered unabashedly at the loss of touch. Broad hands traced down the sides of his body, scorching kisses trailing down the knobs of his spine and ending at the small of his back, before Steve found himself tipped forward, hands braced against the tile and legs spread to support himself.

James was kneeling behind him, sure hands on his hips as he held Steve in place, pressing a kiss to one ass cheek before taking a bite. Steve yelped in surprise, before James’ lips were on his other cheek, followed by another bite that had Steve’s toes curling. Then those big hands were spreading him wide, the only warning before James’ clever tongue swept wide and flat over his hole.

Steve shouted in surprise, jerking away but James followed him, the heated point of his tongue pressing insistently against Steve’s entrance until the tight ring of muscle gave way. In and out, he thrust into Steve’s steadily loosening hole, relentless as he licked and sucked, humming and moaning with obvious enjoyment against Steve’s body. The vibrations shot straight up his spine, short circuiting his brain before traveling back down to his balls and painfully hard erection.

Crossing one arm against the wall, Steve leaned his forehead against his arm and moaned into the tiles, his other hand scrabbling at the slick surface for any kind of purchase. How could he have forgotten how much James had loved doing this? Slowly licking him apart, taking his time, until Steve was a babbling mess and James was begging to get inside him.

As if on cue, James removed his mouth from Steve, pressing his thumbs into Steve’s hole from either side and spreading him open, sighing, “Oh, Stevie, look at you.” Steve felt his cheeks heating up from the filthy praise, heart racing in anticipation. “I need – I need you.”

He spit into him, saliva trailing down his balls before James lapped it up and pressed it into his hole, removing his tongue before one long, thick finger slid easily inside. Steve groaned at the intrusion, shifting back against James’ hand for more.

“Steve, please,” James begged, coming to stand and pressing his body against Steve’s, crowding him up against the wall, finger hooked inside of him like a handhold. Desperate, hot little kisses peppered across his neck, his ear, his shoulder, James endearingly riled up and eager. “Please, I need to be inside you. Please, let me. Please, Stevie, let me. Please say it’s okay.”

“Yes. I want to feel you,” Steve breathed, taking a haphazard glance around them and finding a bottle of expensive conditioner, thrusting it into James’ hand. “Here. Do it.”

His finger slid out, James’ hands shaking as he dribbled the conditioner onto his fingers, shifting back to reach behind Steve again and circling a slick finger against his entrance. Despite the haste of their passion and the fact that Steve was already a little loose, James breached him carefully, rubbing and teasing at his hole for a moment until the resistance gave way. He gently thrust with one finger until the slide was effortless before adding another.

Steve breathed raggedly into the shower wall, moaning as James stroked him, brushing over his prostate in a way that had his blood buzzing beneath his skin like an electric current waiting to spark. James’ mouth was back on his neck, tonguing at his rabbit-fast pulsepoint.

“James,” Steve urged breathlessly, pushing back against his hand, spreading his legs even wider. “I’m ready.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” James murmured, a third finger bumping up against his rim. “Just let me – ”

“No, I’m ready,” Steve insisted, pulling his hips away, fingers sliding free with a slick squelch that would’ve normally made him blush if his brain hadn’t been so addled with lust. “I need to feel you.”

Their eyes met over Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s confidence eclipsing James’ uncertainty, and the man conceded with a nod, slicking up his cock with the conditioner before grasping Steve’s hip in one hand and using the other to guide himself to Steve’s waiting hole. Gingerly, James pressed in with a maddening patience until he breached the tight ring of muscle, the head of his cock hot and huge inside him. Steve hissed involuntarily at the pleasure-pain, feeling James tense and grabbing at James’ hips before he could move away.

“Don’t,” Steve insisted, fixing James with a glare over his shoulder. “I can take it.”

The wrinkle of worry on James’ forehead smoothed away, fingers coming up to trail down Steve’s jaw as he kissed him briefly. “I know you can, baby. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

Slowly, Steve began to slide back onto James’ impressive length, inch by inch, the conditioner easing the way. God, he’d forgotten how big James was, and it had been quite a while; in fact, the last person who had fucked him had been James. He breathed evenly as he adjusted to the intrusion, James shifting slightly, easing something infinitesimally, and then Steve’s mouth fell open, head tipping forward as a soft sigh escaped his lips.

“That’s it,” James soothed, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close as he started to move, a smooth, slick slide up into his body. “That’s it, baby. Does that feel good? Tell me how it feels, baby.”

Something inside of Steve ached at the idea that James hadn’t changed since the last time they’d done this, that he still seeked praise and affirmation during sex. Despite James’ size and bravado, he was a thoughtful lover, gentle and sensitive and eager to please. It had been a gift, to Steve, that James could give himself over so completely during sex, that all he had wanted was someone to care for him and not take advantage, and he would do anything asked of him, to his fullest capabilities, and  _ enjoy _ it, so long as he was appreciated.

He wondered if Brock Rumlow had taken advantage, then quickly pushed that thought right out of his brain, because Rumlow wasn’t here; Steve was, and as long as there was a breath in his body, he was never going to let anyone – but especially Rumlow – lay a finger on James again.

“It feels – ” he attempted, as James pumped in and out of him, cock sliding right over his prostate, slick and easy and so good. “It feels perfect. Your cock is so perfect. Fuck, I forgot how – I forgot how big you are.”

“Forgot how tight you are,” James responded in turn, burying his face in Steve’s neck, warm breath puffing over his skin. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion, muffled as he hid from Steve’s gaze. “I forgot – I forgot how good you feel. You feel so good, Stevie. You’re so good, you’re so good, I forgot – I forgot – ”

“It’s okay,” Steve soothed, removing one hand from the wall and reaching back to card his fingers through James’ long hair slicked smooth with water. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m right here. I’m right here, I got you, I’m right here.”

“Steve,” James said, clutching him harder, fingers digging into his skin, and Steve realized he wasn’t the only one afraid of James disappearing again, that James was holding on just as tight. He tugged at James’ hair, forcing his head up in order to meet his eye as best as possible with the awkward angle.

“I got you,” Steve said, like a vow. “I swear to God, I got you.”

“I want to see you,” James suddenly blurted, slipping out hastily and grasping Steve’s shoulders to turn him around.

Immediately, Steve bracketed James’ face in his hands, pulling him into a languid, heated kiss, relishing in the feel of James’ pliant lips against his own. Steve rocked against James, his neglected erection sliding against James’ slick cock. Their mouths separated in a simultaneous moan, Steve rutting against James like an animal, his hands gliding down over rounded pecs, nimble fingers twisting and tugging at his nipples mercilessly.

James bit a hiss into Steve’s neck, the latter hoping it would leave a bruise, a tangible reminder that James was here and with him, wanted him, and it spurred Steve on. Wanting to leave his own mark on James, he slid his hands around to James’ hard, strong back to scrape his nails down tender flesh. James growled as he captured Steve’s mouth in another bruising kiss, biting at his bottom lip and pulling a gasp out of Steve before sweeping his tongue across it to soothe the sting.

Firm hands curved down Steve’s sides and over his ass, slipping beneath his thighs and grasping tight to hoist Steve up. James turned swiftly to press Steve back against the shower wall, hitting the shower caddy in his fervor, shampoo and soap bottles tumbling to the floor with hollow thuds that echoed off the tiles.

Steve curled his arms around James’ neck and wrapped his legs around his waist, equally surprised and turned on at the show of strength. He didn’t remember James ever being so strong, a flash of memory at the hole in Steve’s wall from James’ fist crossing his mind, right through the concrete, but the thought was pushed right out of him as James lowered Steve right onto his cock, deliciously impaling him.

“James,” he breathed, kissing the side of James’ face, the cut of his jaw, until James turned and their lips met in a messy kiss. Steve moaned into James’ mouth as he bounced up and down the man’s thick, hard length, his own cock sliding smoothly between their bellies with a pleasant, teasing friction that kept him right on edge.

“Touch yourself,” James pleaded, leaning back to give Steve room. At Steve’s dubious glance, he said, “I got you. Touch yourself.”

Steve reluctantly let go of his stronghold around James’ neck and snaked a hand between them, grasping his straining cock in his fist and leaning his head back against the wall, eyes hooded as he worked himself. The new angle lined James up perfectly with Steve’s prostate, the other man nailing it with every thrust. Mouth falling open, Steve gasped with every stroke of his hand and thrust of James inside him, both men falling into a frenzy as the heat between them built like a fire taking to kindling, and Steve was more than ready to allow himself to be consumed. 

“James,” he cried, trying to hold on, to feel this way for just a little bit longer, but he couldn’t stop his fist from flying over himself, balls pulling in tight as the heat inside built and built and built.

“Come on, baby,” James panted, eyes bouncing between Steve’s and his erection. “Show me. I want to see. Let me see. Please?”

With that one word, Steve’s orgasm washed over him with the force of a backdraft, sucking all the oxygen out of his lungs and burning him from the inside out. He spilled over himself and James’ abdomen with a moan, the sight igniting a blaze within James’ own heart, who dove in for a kiss, their mouths crushing to each other’s, Steve yielding to James’ deft tongue as it slid insistently past his lips, sucking on it and making James moan wantonly.

Pinned between James’ solid body and the wall, Steve sat helpless with his arms back around James’ neck, the other man pumping up into him mercilessly and punching the air out of him with every thrust reinforced by those powerful thighs. James was almost there, Steve knew, his pumping furious and uncoordinated, breathing hard with a glazed look in his eyes.

“Steve,” he said breathlessly, voice desperate as his grip tightened painfully on Steve’s thighs, and he knew it would bruise but he didn’t care, he relished in the pleasure and the pain, in the awareness of being alive. “Stevie, baby, I’m gonna come. Please, I’m right there, I’m right there, I’m right – ”

“It’s okay,” Steve told him. “Do it.”

James let out a sharp cry, his forehead resting on Steve’s shoulder as he slammed into him once, twice, three times, spurting hotly deep inside. Steve held on tight through the tremors, murmuring sweetly into James’ ear like he knew James liked, encouragement and praise tumbling from his lips unchecked.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re so good, you’re the best,” Steve said, and didn’t say, “I love you. I miss you. Don’t leave me again.”

Once his breathing had evened, James slipped out of Steve, the evidence of their lovemaking following shortly thereafter, sliding down Steve’s legs and into the shower drain. He lowered Steve to the ground, Steve’s legs nearly giving out beneath him, the sharp pain from James’ grip on him shooting up his hamstrings. Remaining unsteadily against the wall, Steve watched James as the other man washed off his dick, and closed his eyes hard against the fact that they hadn’t even used any protection. That alone told him where his head had been when they’d started this, a mistake as glaring as what had just happened between them.

“Steve?” came James’ tentative voice. He opened his eyes to see James’ vulnerable expression, fearful and hopeful all at once. Steve said nothing, voice stuck in his throat. James cast his eyes away. “Water’s getting cold.”

“Yeah,” Steve managed, as the water cut off. James pushed the shower door open, grabbing a towel from the rack and handing one to Steve, who didn’t look at James as he dried off, acutely aware of James’ eyes on him.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” James asked, startling Steve.

“What? No,” he responded, wrapping his towel around his waist in an attempt at modesty, before fleeing from the bathroom. “I’m going to find us some clothes.”

“Then what is it?” James asked, trailing behind like a lost puppy and looking just as pitiful.

Steve stepped into the bedroom closet, finding it furnished with fluffy robes and brand new sets of sweatpants, sweatshirts, tee shirts, and long sleeved shirts, all emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo. He spared a moment imagining underwear complete with a logo right on the crotch stocked in the dresser drawers, then considered knowing Tony, it probably wasn’t an unreasonable thought. He grabbed his sizes and turned to find James standing in the doorway, naked and still dripping with water, his towel held uselessly at his side.

He couldn’t stop the spark of desire that raced through his blood, followed by a harsh wave of anger that he could never control himself when it came to James B. Barnes.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Steve announced, eyes cast away. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” James asked, voice small. “But, Steve, I love you.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve stated firmly, with a shake of his head. “You’re just confused.”

“I am  _ not  _ confused,” James shot back, with just as much conviction and more than a little frustration.

“Well, I am!” Steve shouted. “James, we almost just died tonight. People are after us, and people we trusted are now our enemies. We just barely dodged a bullet with Rumlow at the hospital, for God’s sake, and who knows what’s on that flash drive upstairs? I was just…upset, okay? And I wasn’t thinking straight – ”

“I’m sorry,” James blurted, the apology and the devastation with which it was said surprising Steve into looking up. James hastily clutched the towel around his waist, looking absolutely stricken. His eyes were big and wide, face pale, entire body trembling. Steve furrowed his brow in confusion. “I didn’t mean to – to take advantage. I didn’t – I mean – I should’ve considered what you were going through, and I didn’t – I didn’t think – ”

It hit Steve suddenly, his confusion giving way to complete understanding with a jarring shock. After spending six weeks at the hands of terrorists, without an ability to say no or make a decision, his body touched and used in whatever way they saw fit, his mind dismantled and memories stolen, James was utterly horrified to learn that he had taken away Steve’s agency by catching him vulnerable and using it as an opportunity to get what he wanted.

“James,” Steve began, because James had it all wrong, Steve  _ had  _ wanted it, and if anyone had taken advantage it was Steve, knowing what James had been through, that James was confused by imperfect memory, but before he could utter a word, the electricity turned off and an alarm started blaring, emergency lights flashing over the doorway.

Both men startled, glancing around before meeting each other’s eye, saying at the same time: “Tony.”

They dressed quickly, James grabbing his wet boots from the bathroom and Steve pulling on his sneakers in the kitchen, then raced to the door. James paused with his hand on the doorknob, holding out a belaying hand to Steve while seeming to listen through the heavy door. Steve was hardly able to believe he would hear anything over the alarms, but James had experience in field missions, so he would let the man take the lead just as he had at Steve’s apartment earlier.

Finally, James cautiously opened the door and peered into the hallway outside, and after a brief moment, he motioned for Steve to follow him. The hallway was silent and still save for the alarm, only dimly lit with emergency lighting. Both men moved to the elevator, the up and down buttons dark along with the floor display above the doors.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Steve tried, as he pressed the up button, but there was no response, and the elevator didn’t move. He exchanged a worried glance with James, who cocked his head towards the stairwell.

“Come on,” the other man said.

They moved to the stairwell doorway, James peeking through the small glass window before trying the handle, but when he made to turn it, nothing happened. He jiggled it a few times, then looked back at Steve.

“It’s locked,” he stated. “Why would they lock the stairwells if there was an emergency?”

“They wouldn’t,” Steve said, a sense of dread threatening to overwhelm him. “They’re trapping us in.”

“No, they’re not,” James shot back, voice as hard as steel and eyes just as cold, right before he twisted the handle so hard it broke off in his hand, the entire locking mechanism coming right out with it. He threw it aside, shouldering the door open, and Steve could only stare open-mouthed at the handle on the floor, mangled with five perfect finger-shaped dents.

“James,” he breathed, and he couldn’t hear himself over the sounds of the alarms, but the other man turned at the sound of his voice. Heightened hearing. Enhanced strength. “What did they do to you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied evenly, expression grim. “Let’s go.”

It was a few flights to Tony’s private lounge, James slowing down to keep pace with Steve, who really wished he’d brought his inhaler by the third flight. He felt awful to be holding James back, and maybe he should have been worried his presence and lack of field training would only put James in danger, but there was no way he was going to let the man walk into whatever was waiting for them upstairs alone.

When they reached Tony’s floor, the alarm abruptly stopped, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. James tried the door, easily turning the handle and pushing it open, more worrying than if they’d found it locked. They stepped into the small landing, the door to Tony’s private lounge on the other side. James listened as Steve waited with bated breath, heart hammering in his chest and lungs still recovering from the climb, hands trembling with an adrenaline rush.

Whatever James could hear made him frown as he turned to his companion, whispering, “I want you to stay here.”

“No,” Steve balked, fiercely yet quietly. He didn’t bother with any further protests, leveling James with an incredulous stare. This was his choice, and James wasn’t going to take that away from him.

“We don’t have any weapons,” James tried. S.H.I.E.L.D. had confiscated both guns at Steve’s apartment. “Steve – ”

“What do you hear?” he asked instead, then grabbed at James’ shirtsleeve when he didn’t get an answer. “What do you hear?”

“Agents,” James responded, gritting his jaw. “Tony. They want the USB.”

“How do they know he has it?”

“It must’ve had a tracker,” James said, then shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “I should have known. I have to go in there.”

“You’re not going in there alone,” Steve stated dubiously, squaring his shoulders and readying himself.

“What are you going to do?” James shot back. “You weigh a buck twenty five with rocks in your pockets. Are you crazy?”

“Well, what are you going to do?” Steve bristled, fighting to keep his voice low. “Fight them all by yourself?”

“Maybe I can reason with them,” James offered.

“Reason with them how?” Steve asked, and when James slid his gaze away, Steve understood. He let out a startled breath, almost a laugh. “They don’t only want the USB. So – what? You’re just going to go in there and offer yourself up? Is that it? And just let them take you away, back to that hole in the ground where they’ll – ”

“Well, what do you suggest I do,  _ Captain America? _ ” James hissed, rounding on him with a fire in his clear blue eyes. “Stand by while they kill someone else? How many other people are going to die because of me? Fury’s  _ dead _ , Steve. We almost –  _ you  _ almost – ” His voice broke, James swallowing hard before he continued. “I am not letting anyone else die tonight, and that’s including you.”

“You’re not  _ letting me  _ do anything,” Steve said, adrenaline and anger making his hands shake. “I don’t need your permission. I’m going in there with you whether you – ”

Suddenly, James cocked his ear down the stairwell and grabbed Steve’s arm at the same time, pulling him away from the stairwell but unwilling to open the door to Tony’s floor, expression displaying his panic.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath coming in short bursts, but before he had to say anything, Steve could hear them: boot steps, heavy and fast as they traveled up the stairs. Steve cast his eyes around for an escape, but there was nowhere else to go; they were on the top floor of the Tower, the only roof access from this stairwell was through Tony’s private lounge. James’ eyes met Steve’s, wide and scared. “Steve, I’m sorry.”

Steve didn’t want James’ last memory of Steve to be James thinking James had taken advantage of him. He wanted James to know that whatever had happened between them might have been a mistake, but it had been one they’d both made, together, of their own free will in a moment of vulnerability and desperation. But he didn’t have time to tell him that, the heavy beat of combat boots getting louder and louder, so instead, heart pounding, he stood on tiptoe and pressed a firm kiss against James’ mouth.

“No regrets,” Steve told him fiercely, and James nodded with a hard swallow. Then they turned to face their fate.

* * *

It wasn’t a surprise that Brock Rumlow was leading a nine other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents up the stairs. It was a surprise, however, that he wasn’t holding a gun; instead, a military grade stun baton was gripped tightly in his hands. He stopped short just at the top of the landing, chest heaving from the climb up, warily fixing his eyes on James.

“Before we get started,” James murmured, voice dangerously low, fists clenched at his sides and body poised to fight, “does anyone want to back out?”

There was a moment’s pause before Rumlow surged forward, the agents following close behind. James didn’t even hesitate to throw himself into the fray, fists swinging, but before he could even get in a blow, Rumlow swung his baton down and up into James’ side, shocking him mercilessly. James cried out in pain, body twisting with a jolt of electricity.

“James!” Steve shouted, as three agents rushed the intelligence analyst. They reached for him, and he might have been small but he wasn’t going to go down easy. He swung a right hook into one of their jaws, the agent staggering back with surprise as another one grabbed Steve’s arm and shoved him back into the wall, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He kicked that agent straight in the groin, the man doubling over with a groan as the third agent grabbed him from behind, the first agent already recovered and coming in to assist.

Steve’s arm was twisted back and up painfully, face pressed into concrete and an arm braced against the back of his neck. He struggled against the grip, hardly able to breathe as he watched James from the corner of his eye.

There were already three men unconscious on the ground, Rumlow back against the wall recovering from some kind of blow. There were three other agents wrestling with James, two of them trying to force thick metal cuffs around his wrists. They managed to clasp one on his left arm just as Rumlow came forward, jabbing James with the stun baton again. James screamed, twisting away, freeing his left arm and swinging at Rumlow with all his might but missing in his pain-induced haze, punching the door to Tony’s private lounge hard enough to slam it open.

James fell through the door gracelessly, stumbling to his feet quickly with Rumlow and the other agents hot on his heels. Steve kicked out, unwilling to be left behind, connecting with the agent’s shin behind him. The man let up on his hold just enough for Steve to squirm away, elbowing the agent in the gut and flinging himself into the lounge.

Tony was sitting in a chair, hands ziptied behind him and mouth and nose bleeding, face puffy from a fresh beating. Natasha was standing before him with her feet firmly planted and a gun in her hands, aimed right at James. There was blood on her fingers.

Everything stopped. James raised his hands, breathing hard and half doubled over, still reeling from the jolts of electricity. Two agents came forward and each grabbed one of James’ arms, Rumlow circling around him to stand beside Natasha. Another agent grasped Steve’s arm in a bruising grip, pressing a stun baton into his side but not pulling the trigger, but the intent was clear. He wasn’t actually sure his heart would survive a shock of that caliber, so between the threat of the stun baton and the gun on James, he remained still despite his instincts to fight back.

“Glad you guys could join the party,” Tony muttered haggardly, head tipped forward as he caught his breath.

“What is going on here?” Steve demanded, the only thing he could do without risk to his friends’ wellbeing.

“You’re coming with us,” Rumlow said to James.

“What do you want with him?” Steve asked, trying to get Natasha to meet his eye, but she was focused intently on James, face void of emotion.

“What are we going to do about him?” Natasha asked, ignoring Steve completely but nodding her head in his direction. He shook his head in disbelief, begging silently for her to tell him this wasn’t real, that this wasn’t her, that they were friends, that they  _ knew  _ her. She had nearly throttled him in that bathroom at Walter Reed after Steve had abandoned James in his darkest hour, murder in her eyes as she’d dressed him down right where he’d stood. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t  _ her _ .

“We’re not going to do anything,” Rumlow scoffed, then smiled at James, sly and chilling. “You’re going to kill him.”

“Fuck you,” James spat. “I’ll kill you first.”

“Is that so?” Rumlow asked casually, almost smugly. “How about a field test? Hmm? What do you say, Romanoff?”

Her eyes slid to his beside her momentarily, then snapped back to James. “That wasn’t in the briefing.”

“Not in  _ your  _ briefing,” Rumlow shot back, a small frown forming between Natasha’s eyes at the words, but she recovered quickly. “What do you say, Buck? Can’t put all that training in Afghanistan to waste.”

“What the hell is this?” James asked, eyes darting between Natasha and Rumlow.

“Longing,” Rumlow said, apropos of nothing.

“What?” Steve asked, bemused, glancing at James for some kind of understanding, but the other man looked just as lost.

“Rusted,” Rumlow said.

James let out a startled breath, shutting his eyes briefly. “Wait.”

“James?” Steve called, warily.

“Seventeen.”

James shook his head, breath coming quickly, closing his eyes tightly as if bracing against the words coming at him. “Stop.”

“Daybreak.”

“Stop!” James pleaded, beginning to fight against the two men holding him. The other two agents left grabbed for him, struggling to hold him still.

“What are you doing to him?” Steve demanded, bewildered as he pulled against the agent’s grip on his arm. Another one joined him, grabbing his other arm and twisting it back painfully, but Steve only grunted, ignoring it. “James!”

“Furnace.”

James screamed, wild with fright and desperation, pushing the agents off of him in an impressive show of his newfound strength. He swung a fist clumsily, connecting with one agent’s jaw, the man stumbling backwards to the floor. They descended right back upon him, grabbing his arms, his legs, his body, anything they could to restrain him, hitting him and kicking him without regard.

“James!” Steve yelled, as Tony barked, “Natasha! Stop this!”

“Nine!” Rumlow yelled over the scuffle. Natasha’s eyes were wide.

“James!” Steve cried again, wrestling against the agents’ grip on his arms. His heart was pounding, breathing coming short and quick with a wheeze on every exhale, signs of an impending asthma attack. He couldn’t calm down, he was scared beyond belief, terror seizing his lungs.

“Benign!”

James almost got free, but the agents finally managed to drag him down to the ground, James’ feet kicking out from beneath the pile of men, voice hoarse as he cried out like a desperate, cornered animal. Natasha’s gun trailed his movement, but her aim was wavering.

“Homecoming!” Rumlow shouted. “One!”

“Natasha!” Tony tried again, struggling against the zipties keeping him in the chair. “Natasha, do something!”

_ “Freight car,” _ Rumlow said with finality, and the pile of moving bodies stopped so suddenly, Steve found himself still with anticipation.

Slowly, the agents extricated themselves from James, who was lying eerily still. The men around him regarded him warily, hovering closeby, until Rumlow stepped forward, holding his hand out in a gesture for them to step away. He approached James just as the man straightened from the floor, head tipped forward and hair hanging in front of his eyes. His face was blank from emotion, usually bright blue eyes as cold as ice. He looked frightening. He looked dangerous.

He looked like a stranger.

“Soldier?” Rumlow inquired tentatively.

There was hardly a pause. Then, in a dead voice, James responded, “Ready to comply.”

Steve let out a shocked breath. He whispered, “James?”

“Why don’t you take care of that runt over there for me?” Rumlow asked, James’ eyes lifting to focus on Steve without a hit of recognition.

“James,” Steve tried, voice pleading, wounded. “Bucky?”

“Mission accepted,” James only said, in that same wooden tone – terrifying, menacing – then took a hulking step forward.

Natasha burst into movement, moving swiftly towards Rumlow and firing her weapon at the group of agents standing nearby at the same time, no doubt to keep James out of the line of fire. Two agents immediately hit the ground as she lept into a flying kick with deadly grace, hitting Rumlow straight in the chest and tossing him back onto the floor.

Finding his cue with Natasha’s distraction, Steve used the element of surprise to elbow one of the agents still holding him in the gut, slamming a fist into the face of the agent at his other side. He snatched the stun baton out of the agent’s hand, hastily turning it on full voltage and shoving it into his side, dropping him right to the floor. The second agent made a grab for him, but Steve was faster, slipping beneath his arms and striking him with the baton right in the balls. In another moment, he was down too. Steve didn’t have half a mind to care if they were dead.

At the same time, James reached out rattlesnake fast with his left arm, grabbing Natasha around the throat in mid air and slamming her onto a coffee table, bearing down on her with all his weight. Steve took a quick step in her direction, darting around the other two agents left standing besides Rumlow, who was still recovering on the ground, but Tony stopped him.

“Steve!” he called, struggling futilely against his bindings. Steve turned on his heel, understanding he’d have more a a chance helping Natasha with Tony by his side.

There was a sudden grip at the back of his shirt; one agent had caught up to him, grabbing tightly to his clothes and yanking him back, the second agent hot on his heels. Steve stumbled, turning and swinging the stun baton clumsily, the agent knocking it straight out of his hand with a painful swing at his wrist. The other agent grabbed his left arm, pulling him in close.

They were too big for Steve to hope to incapacitate them with just his fists, a desperate, hopeless feeling overcoming him until he caught sight of the heavy crystal bottle sitting on the bar holding Tony’s expensive whiskey. He reached out with his free hand and grasped the neck, twisting his body and swinging as hard as he could at the agent holding him. The bottle didn’t even crack as it connected with the side of the agent’s head with a sickening thud, dropping him instantly. He fell into the second agent, knocking him back to the ground with his fall. Steve threw the bottle with all his might, hitting the other agent right in the face, the glass finally shattering and sending the second agent into stillness, face bloodied and disfigured.

“You had to use  _ that _ bottle?” Tony groused as Steve slid to kneel behind him, tugging at the zipties. They were military grade, thick and durable, made for restraint.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Steve promised, glancing around to find anything useful to cut the plastic with. He grabbed a shard of glass from the floor and gripped it around the sleeve of his shirt in an attempt to protect his hand, sawing rapidly at the plastic bindings.

“It’s worth ten thousand dollars!”

“I’ll go to IKEA,” he replied absently, eyes darting to where Natasha, still on the coffee table struggling against James’ grip, had managed to wrap her legs around his neck, her knees squeezing as hard as she could. 

“IKEA!” Tony cried, outraged. A sudden sting drew Steve’s attention away, the shard of glass piercing his skin, but he ignored it as he finally cut through the ziptie enough for Tony to snap it in half and free himself.

“Natasha!” Steve called, as both he and Tony ran for her, just as Rumlow was getting up from the ground, the man swaying from Natasha’s fierce blow. Running at full speed, Tony turned his shoulder and slammed into Rumlow, knocking him back to the floor and grappling with him to keep him down.

Unsure of what other choice he had, Steve picked up his fallen stun baton and considered for a split second that it was still turned to full power, but James had crushed that door handle with his bare hand, had knocked these agents around like rag dolls, was trying to kill his closest friends. Steve didn’t have any other choice – until he looked at the agents lying motionless on the floor, too still to be alive, and in the end he couldn’t do it. He turned the voltage down, then drew in a breath and jabbed it into James’ side.

James jerked with the shock of electricity, letting up his grip enough for Natasha to escape. She knocked his hand away and rolled gracelessly off the coffee table onto all fours, gasping and coughing into the floor. Steve didn’t relent, moving with James as James tried to step away, the man falling down to his knees in agony, Steve’s heart pounding at the pain he was inflicting on someone who had already been through so much pain at the hands of those he’d thought were his friends, his loved ones.

With a howl of rage, James twisted around so fast Steve barely had time to react, withdrawing his arm but it wasn’t fast enough. James grabbed his wrist in a punishing grip, Steve gasping in surprise and pain. The stun baton clattered to the floor as Steve was forced to release it. He dropped to one knee just as James stood to full height, towering over Steve’s sleight frame, expression fierce and frightening, unrecognizable. Unable to do anything but cry out in pain, he pleaded with his eyes for James to recognize him, to see him, but there was no light in James’ eyes, nothing but relentless determination.

“James,” Steve pleaded, tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes from the pain. “Listen to me, James. This isn’t you. You know me.”

Tony sprang from behind, reaching out, but James barely turned as he struck out with his free hand, sending the billionaire flying backwards. Steve dared a glance around to see Natasha wrestling with Rumlow on the ground, two of the agents that had been knocked unconscious in the stairwell landing slowly stumbling through the door. Steve had to do something – fast; they wouldn’t be able to continue on much longer, not with those agents regrouping, or if any reinforcements arrived.

“James, stop!” Steve tried. “You know me!”

James cocked his head. “You’re my mission.”

“No,” Steve urged, as James loomed closer, another agent rousing from the floor. “James, listen to me! I’m your friend! Steve. Steve Rogers. Please, James, listen!”

“Shut up,” James hissed, still in that dead tone, gripping tighter. His bones grinded together, and it wouldn’t be much longer until they gave way under the crushing pressure of James’ grip. Steve screamed, scrabbling at James’ hand in an attempt to get him to let up his hold.

“We loved each other!” he cried, voice wrought with agony. He gritted his teeth, words spilling from his lips unchecked in his desperation, nails digging into James’s skin, tearing the flesh. “You were my husband! We were happy!”

And they had been, until they’d lost themselves to their work, too focused on their careers to remember that relationships – that marriages – took work, took sacrifice, took more than just the assumption that the other would always be there. That day had come, when James had left, and it hadn’t been only James’ fault, it had been Steve’s too, and he knew that now, he knew he was just as responsible, he’d just been too blinded by his own hurt and rage to see it before.

“Shut up,” James snapped again, shaking his head like a dog trying to rid its ears of water, fighting against something pushing to the surface.

“James, I love you!” Steve determinedly went on. “I’ve never stopped loving you! ’Til the end of the line, remember?” And that did something, some flash of recognition in James’ eyes, gone just as fast as it had arrived. He barrelled on with a renewed spark of determination. “I meant it, James, I still mean it!  ’Til the end of the line!”

“Shut  _ up! _ ” James yelled, face contorting with anger, releasing Steve’s wrist only to grab him by the throat, lifting him into the air as if he weighed nothing, spinning them both and slamming him into the wall, stealing the breath from his lungs. Steve clutched at James’ arms with one hand, his other pulsing with pain.

“James – ” Steve gasped, just as Natasha gave Rumlow a hard shove, rushing towards James and jumping onto his back. He threw her off with barely any regard, his hold on Steve never wavering. Two of the agents that had roused sprang for her, pulling her attention away as Rumlow took a step forward, only to be tripped up by Tony grabbing his ankle and giving it a hard tug. “James – please – ”

“You’re my mission!” James shouted, but there was something in his eyes, something spurring forth from the back of his mind. Steve opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t come, his throat constricted, air trapped in his lungs. His feet skidded against the floor, both arms flailing to get any kind of purchase, pushing and tugging at James’ arms, his chest, his hair, anything he could reach.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rumlow had backed Tony into a corner. Steve fought to hold on to consciousness, knowing if he passed out, if he died, that would be one less man in the fight and their chances of survival would only dwindle from there.

“James,” he rasped, barely audible, and infinitesimally, impossibly, the man’s grip on his neck loosened, just enough for him to say, “It’s okay. I forgive you. I meant it. ’Til the end of the line.”

A horrified look overcame James’ face, breath escaping him in a startled burst. “Steve?”

For one fleeting moment, James met his eye, grip loosening, before Steve saw the swing coming.

“Natasha, no!” Steve manage to croak, before the grip on his neck tightened once more, James’ body jerking taught like a livewire. Natasha had slammed the stun baton into his side, powered up to full voltage. James went down like a sack of bricks, Steve following suit, helpless to it. He hit the ground hard, the breath stealing from his lungs as his head struck the floor, lights flashing before his eyes. He couldn’t find any air, lungs spasming as he struggled to take in a breath, the impending asthma attack he’d been fighting since climbing the stairs finally roaring in full force.

He was lightheaded, clinging to consciousness. The last thing he saw was James’ eyes roll back into his head – Natasha gritting her teeth as she bore down on him with the stun baton – before the darkness swept Steve away like a wave to the ocean.

* * *

He woke up fighting, fists up, body coiled like a snake ready to strike. His elbows struck the sides of the small enclosure he was in, head hitting the ceiling as he attempted to spring to his feet, nausea and panic overtaking him in equal turns for one fraught moment until – 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Rocky!” Tony exclaimed, from the front seat of Steve’s car, laptop in his lap, fingers flying furiously across the keys. Natasha was driving, creeping down side streets, her eyes darting between the rearview and sideview mirrors.

“Where’s James?” Steve shouted, then felt the sting of tears in his eyes, heart hammering, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “You didn’t kill him. Please, tell me you didn’t kill him, Natasha, tell me he’s not dead.”

“He’s not dead,” she quickly replied, but didn’t elaborate further.

“Then where  _ is he? _ ” Steve demanded, then had a wild, fleeting thought. “He’s in the  _ trunk?” _

“Steve, you drive a Prius,” Tony stated, pausing in his typing. “He would never fit.”

“Tony!” both Steve and Natasha barked at the same time, and he at least had the sense to look sheepish. Through gritted teeth, Steve said, in a warning tone, “You didn’t leave him at the Tower.”

Natasha cut her eyes to him for only a moment before returning to her vigilant watch on the roads. “We had to.”

“Natasha – !”

“Steve, he’s dangerous,” she told him, and he shook his head, groaning in frustration. “He was going to kill you.”

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head vehemently. “He snapped out of it, which you would have noticed if you weren’t too busy _ jamming a stun baton into his face at full blast!” _

He was breathing hard again, chest tightening, before leaning over Tony and reaching for the glovebox, snapping it open to pull out a spare inhaler. Tony squawked indignantly as the laptop tipped over, grabbing at it hastily before continuing at his task with a level glare aimed at Steve.

“He never took his hand off your neck,” Natasha shot back.

“Because you _ jammed a stun baton into his face at full blast!” _ Steve shouted, gulping in air before taking a puff of his inhaler. He held a breath far shorter than he should’ve, too keyed up to care.

“Steve, calm down,” she said, voice firm.

“You calm down!” he snapped irrationally, but he wasn’t thinking straight enough to come up with a better comeback. “He broke out of whatever it was they did to him, but you were too busy colluding with Rumlow to notice! What’s your endgame, Natasha? You better start talking after all the shit you’ve pulled. Not only dragging me and James into this, but dragging Tony – ”

“ _ You _ dragged Tony into this!” she yelled. “ _ I _ was handling it!”

“You beat the shit out of him!”

“She doesn’t pull her punches, by the way,” Tony interjected, almost absently as he concentrated on his work.

“You beat the shit out of him,” Steve said again, voice dangerously low, knuckles white as he grasped one seat each in front of him. “You hurt him, and you hurt James, and you hurt me. A man is  _ dead _ . He died in  _ my  _ fucking apartment, and nearly took me and James with him. So you better start talking, Natasha, and you better start now.”

She clenched her jaw, her grip on the steering wheel just as fierce. For a moment, he almost thought she wasn’t going to say anything, until she blew out a harsh breath. “It’s called the Winter Soldier Project. Zola brought it over with him from Russia; he’s been working on it since the sixties. They’re trying to make the perfect soldier. More powerful than any man, ruthless, unstoppable, and unquestioningly obedient. They take away your mind and turn you into an attack dog. No feelings, no morality, just…absolute subservience.”

Steve shuddered, remembering James in that hospital room with his memories stolen, James breaking down on the floor of his apartment at night, James whispering,  _ I don’t know what’s real and what’s part of my nightmares _ .

“That was the intelligence I was gathering on the Lemurian Star,” Natasha stated, and Steve blinked back to the present.

“So Fury did hire Batroc to take the ship,” Steve said, and in his mind’s eye, immediately pulled up the files he’d read and agonized over until he’d had it memorized.

“Yes,” she admitted. “He pulled me in about six months ago. He didn’t trust anyone else, and I couldn’t either.”

“You couldn’t trust James?” Steve balked. “Or me?”

“James was compromised,” she stated, and didn’t have to say that it was because of his relationship with Rumlow. “You would’ve been, too, and I couldn’t risk you divulging anything to him.”

“Did you know they were going to take him?” he asked, in almost a whisper, too afraid of the answer. 

“No,” she told him, and he briefly closed his eyes in relief. He was sure he wouldn’t have ever been able to forgive her if she’d known, regardless of her motives for the greater good. “I didn’t know until after the fact. They used the opportunity during the operation, and Rumlow used his relationship with James to lure him out. But I didn’t know until after they dumped him.”

“So they wanted him to be found,” Steve realized, and nodded in understanding. “And they had to test him.”

“They had to know if it worked.”

Steve huffed an incredulous breath. “You could’ve stopped this. You were with them. You knew they were coming. You could’ve  _ warned  _ him – ”

“I did what I had to do,” she interrupted harshly, working her jaw again. “Back there – at the Tower – I had to see what they were capable of, and I had to get that intelligence back. Fury couldn’t risk giving it to me when I was still in that deep; he had to give it to you.”

“Natasha,” Steve said, and couldn’t hold back the helpless tone in his voice. He ran his hands through his hair, gripping tight at the strands at the back of his neck. “There had to be another way. There had to. You let them – ”

“I did. What I had. To do,” she said again, this time more firmly. “This goes way higher than you think, Steve.”

“How high?” he asked.

It was Tony who answered, eyes on the screen in front of him. “Pierce.”

Steve’s head snapped around so fast his neck cracked. “Pierce?”

“Yeah,” Tony replied, almost casually, then frowned in Steve’s direction. “Alexander Pierce? Secretary of the World Security Council? Your boss?” He blinked. “Is this really not ringing any bells?”

“I know who he is,” Steve gritted out. He shook his head in disbelief. “Pierce is – he’s – he turned down a Nobel Peace Prize, for God’s sake! He said peace wasn’t an achievement, it was a responsibility!”

“And you wonder why I have trust issues,” Natasha deadpanned.

“Tony, are you sure?” Steve asked.

“According to this, yes,” he responded, tilting the laptop towards Steve. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database.”

Steve gaped. “Is that my laptop?”

“Yes, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security is about as laughable as yours.”

“You hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s server on my laptop,” Steve stated more than asked, dumbfounded and more than a little impressed. It was an old laptop he never even used anymore, had just been sitting in his hot car for about three years, forgotten under the seat. “That’s a Macbook from like, twenty-ten. How did you even get power to it?”

Tony pointed to himself. “Genius, remember?”

“So tell me what I’m looking at, genius,” Steve requested, leaning close to look at the computer screen, which was a mess of open tabs and file folders in a crude, obsolete format Steve had never seen before.

“Every S.H.I.E.L.D. file in existence, ever,” Tony told him, and even Natasha pulled her gaze away from the roads for a moment to peer at the screen with intrigue. “And let me tell you, there’s a loooot of Hydra in here.”

“Hydra?” Steve blurted, eyes widening, but he was the only one that appeared surprised.

“Starts with Pierce and goes all the day down the chain,” Tony went on. “The S.T.R.I.K.E. team, obviously, if that party they threw for us was any indication – who planned that, by the way? Terrible hosts. Let’s see, who else is in here? Senators, governors, judges – oh, the head of the EPA, that’s nice. Wait a second, Secretary of Agriculture? Is that what’s going on with our corn?”

“Jesus,” Steve breathed. “Natasha, did you know about this?”

“I had a few leads, but nothing that would hold up in court,” she said. “With the intelligence from the Lemurian Star, we were able to connect Zola to the project, but we were hoping to follow that thread until we could connect Pierce with Zola.”

“Well, it’s all here now,” Tony cut in. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“So what do we do with it?” Steve asked, as Natasha pulled into an abandoned parking lot, slipping the car behind a dumpster and leaving it idling. She stared off into the distance, eyes searching for something they couldn’t see.

“Dump it,” she finally said. “All of it. Put it out there for everyone to see.”

“We have to,” Steve agreed. “It’s the only way to hold everyone accountable.”

“We’re talking about taking down all of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Tony stated, looking between the two of them. “Just to be clear.”

“Yes,” they both replied.

“You do know  _ everyone’s  _ personnel files are in here,” he warned, pointedly looking at Natasha, and Steve wondered not for the first time what was in her past, where she had come from and how she’d gotten here. It was something she hadn’t even ever divulged to James; his ex-husband had admitted it freely to him in the privacy of their own home. “Are you sure you want everyone out there seeing this?”

“Steve’s right,” she murmured after a moment, then smiled bitterly, eyes tinged with sadness. “It’s the only way to hold everyone accountable.”

“Well, we can’t do it from here,” Tony said, indicating the laptop. “I might be a genius, but I’m no magician. This brick can’t handle dumping all those files onto the world wide web, and I wouldn’t do it from my tower even if it wasn’t currently surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D.-slash-Hydra.”

“Why not?” Steve asked.

“Because the highest chances of success would be dumping it straight from the source.”

“We have to break into S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve concluded, then nodded. “We have to find James first. We can’t risk the fallout without him.”

“Steve – ” Natasha tried.

_ “No,”  _ he cut off vehemently, and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling with impatience. “We are not leaving him behind. You  _ owe _ him that, Natasha, you know you do.”

That, at least, she heard, and frowned, clenching her jaw, then nodded. “I know. James isn’t the only one who lost a friend.”

Steve placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Though he may have been far from forgiving her, she was willing to rescue James and expose herself to public scrutiny with only bleak outcomes for both exploits, and that deserved at least a little bit of sympathy.

A sudden, horrible thought struck Steve, and he gaped at Tony. “Oh, my God. Where’s Pepper?”

“I knew I was forgetting something,” Tony griped. “Just kidding, she left upstate to see her mother after she left you guys last night. I told her to lay low, got some security detail on her.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve breathed, remembering her mentioning it earlier. “Tony, I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Tony said, waving away the sentiment. “What’s a little espionage between friends?”

“Okay,” Natasha said, squaring her shoulders and flipping back her hair, steeling herself for a fight. She put the car in reverse, turning to look out the back window as she pulled out of the parking space. “First, weapons. Tony, you find James. Steve, keep pining.”

Steve squawked indignantly, heat rising to his cheeks as he remembered all of the things he’d confessed to James back at the Tower in his desperation, shouting for all to hear. He muttered, “I do not pine.”

She smiled at him indulgently. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

* * *

It was just before dawn. Sleek and black, the helicopter rose above the New York City skyline under the cover of darkness, piloted by Tony’s most trusted Head of Security, a gruff, unwilling accomplice inexplicably called Happy. They didn’t have a lot of time before they would be spotted – if they hadn’t been already – so Natasha and Steve stood by the open side door, dressed in black tactical gear and trussed up in harnesses, ready to rappel when the moment was right.

The wind whipped Steve’s hair around his face, cold and biting. Looking down at the distance between himself and the city streets, his heart pounded against his ribcage, and he closed his eyes briefly against the sudden vertigo. Neither the press of his inhaler against his thigh in his pocket nor the press of the numerous guns and knives strapped to his person were hardly a comfort. His only consolation was Natasha, strong and warm against his back, one hand on the rope and the other held tightly to his harness.

“Okay, kids,” Tony said from the front seat, speaking to them through the comms in their ears. He was typing furiously into his state-of-the-art laptop, which he’d waved around smugly in Steve’s face at least once every two minutes, regardless of how many times Steve told him his current, newer laptop had been confiscated by S.H.I.E.L.D. after the shooting. “We’re aiming for the forty-second floor. Pierce is logged in on a computer in the conference room. Don’t forget: as soon as you get in, everything will be on lockdown.”

“We know, Tony,” Natasha stated, sharing a look with Steve. “We’ve been over this.”

It was true; they’d started at a safehouse in Queens that even Steve had no idea existed, where Natasha had an impressive cache of weapons and tactical gear stored. Once they’d readied themselves for battle, they’d made their way to Tony’s private airfield, where he stored his private jets and helicopters.

They’d decided to start at the source: Secretary Pierce. They’d wait until he was within easy access, then storm in from the windows, locking down the doors to the entire building upon entry. They’d use his computer to dump the files onto the internet, then find James by whatever means necessary.

Keeping track of Pierce within the S.H.I.E.L.D. building was easy with Tony’s access to their servers, and, thanks to the S.T.R.I.K.E. team’s assault on Stark Tower, Pierce was still at headquarters. Rumlow had also returned, scanning in his handprint upon entry. Hopefully, that meant James was with them.

Right before they’d left, Natasha had sent an encrypted message to the only other member of S.H.I.E.L.D. she trusted implicitly: Acting Director Maria Hill. It would give Hill just enough warning to provide backup without being able to interfere with their mission.

“Just making sure we’re all still on the same page,” he responded, voice laced with more than a hint of worry. “Might be an average day at the office for you, my ginger viper, but me and Steve here don’t have a lot of experience absconding a helicopter and Matrixing our way to the rescue.”

“You can’t abscond your own helicopter,” Happy muttered, shaking his head in irritation.

“Haven’t you seen the news?” he shot back. “I’m a fugitive now. Everything I do is illegal.”

“You’re a person of interest,” Happy reminded him.

“Don’t be jealous just because you’re not an interesting person.”

“I know you know that’s not what that means.”

“We’re coming up on our target,” Natasha interrupted impatiently, as they came closer to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. She shifted their bodies right to the edge of the helicopter, Steve stiffening anxiously and barely breathing as he refused to look down. “Steve? Are you ready”

He may have been scared, and he may have been woefully under-qualified for this mission, but he hadn’t ever backed down from a fight (admittedly, even when he should have), and he was certainly not going to start now. Not when James was in danger and the fate of the country was hanging in the balance. So he drew in a shaky breath and nodded, slipping the protective mask down on his helmet resolutely and squaring his shoulders.

Natasha smirked down at him, eyes fond. “Captain.”

“Widow,” he shot her codename back, unwilling to admit how much it thrilled him to hear his own nickname on a real mission, about to jump out of a helicopter to the rescue like a legitimate spy. Now he understood how James could get so caught up in this, despite the danger.  _ This  _ was  _ fun. _

“On your mark,” she called to Tony, as the helicopter swept in close to the building, swooping down and pulling Steve’s stomach right with it. He blew out a breath, willing the nausea away as Natasha loaded an explosive device in her hand, depressing the trigger and keeping her finger on the small button. It was small, designed to stick to the window and shatter it on impact, called “porting,” in technical terms.

“In three…” Tony said, the helicopter hovering right outside the window of the oversized conference room, Pierce at the computer station. “Two…” The Secretary only had enough time to turn towards them, mouth dropping open in shock. “ _ One! _ ”

She released the trigger, throwing the device like a fastball that would make even the most seasoned of professional baseball pitchers proud. It struck the center of the window with expert aim, glass exploding in a rain of glittering shards. Immediately thereafter, she hoised both herself and Steve out of the helicopter without preamble, the harness stealing the breath from his lungs as it jerked against his body.

They swung down in a sharp arc and into the window, glass still falling around them and crunching beneath their boots as they landed. Alarms immediately announced their arrival, bright lights flashing from the fire alarm located above the doorway. The wind whipped in through the window, whistling in the small space and sending papers flying throughout the room in a swirl.

With a deftness Steve didn’t know was possible, Natasha had the rappel line cut and a gun in her hand, aimed directly at Pierce. Steve, for his part, fumbled for his gun, nearly dropping it in his haste to pull it out of its holster before drawing his aim at Pierce as well.

“And to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Pierce asked from where he was standing beside the computer station, a large display of tactical information in front of him. He was yelling over the noise, as the helicopter drew sharply away from the window. Natasha lifted her face mask, Steve following suit, but Pierce only laughed with disbelief. “The Black Widow and – Captain America, is it? If you’ve come for Barnes, you’re too late.”

Steve ignored the twist in his gut, the bile rising to the back of his throat. If they’d harmed even so much as a hair on his head, Steve was going to kill every single one of them with a bullet to the head, consequences be damned. He opened his mouth to relay as much when Natasha shifted minutely, tossing him a warning look.

“Good thing we aren’t here for Barnes,” she replied coolly, then tipped her gun to the side along with her head, indicating the side of the room. “Move. Rogers?”

He took his cue, circling around the desk and grabbing Pierce’s arm, heaving him towards the wall and keeping the gun pressed hard against his back, careful to keep his finger off the trigger like James had trained him all those years ago.

“What are you doing?” Pierce asked, as Natasha holstered her gun to turn her attention to the computer, fingers flying over the keys.

“Go for Stark,” Natasha murmured into her comm, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest, cocking her hip in a very deadly, very sexy manner. “We’re dumping all of your secrets onto the internet.”

“Including Hydra’s,” Steve added.

“And yours,” Pierce reminded her. “Are you sure you’re ready for the world to see you as you really are?”

She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Are you?”

“Don’t you understand what you’re doing?” Pierce snapped, his confident facade cracking. “This is our chance to finally obtain world peace!”

“By enslaving soldiers?” Steve asked, and maybe he pressed the gun a little too hard into Pierce’s side, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction when the man flinched. “By taking away their free will? By taking away the free will of the people when you use your soldiers to enforce your agenda?”

“The people can’t be trusted with free will!” the man shot back, as if the idea were incredible. “Look what they’ve done with it so far. The sacrifice of the few will lead to the prosperity of the masses. Agent Barnes and those who follow will be honored to have played their part in global stabilization, in the flourishment of the human race.”

“That’s why he volunteered, right?” Steve gritted out between his teeth. He shook his head in disbelief, breathing, “You’re insane.”

Pierce’s face twisted in anger, his mouth opening to retort, when the door burst inwards. Wood splintered with a loud explosion, Natasha drawing her gun and aiming at the door as she ducked behind the desk. Steve turned Pierce and stood behind him, making sure to keep his gun within sight, pressed into Pierce’s neck so whoever entered could see the immediate threat. His weapon was heavy, his palm sweaty; despite his earlier spark of anger, swearing to kill everyone in sight in the heat of the moment, he’d never shot anyone point blank before. Now, faced with the reality of it, he wasn’t even sure he could do it if the circumstances called for it, even if this was the man that had masterminded the entire program. While he may have killed those agents back at the Tower, that had been in self-defence. Pierce was unarmed, a hostage, a pawn.

“Put your weapons down!” Rumlow shouted from the doorway. Steve’s heart just about stopped at the sight of James standing in front of the other agent. He was wearing different clothes, an imposing tac vest with straps and buckles, heavy cargo pants and boots, all black. There was some kind of mask over his mouth and nose, almost like a muzzle, as if to either keep him quiet or remove his sense of self, like he was just an anonymous  _ thing _ and not a person. Steve shivered at the thought, catching sight of James’ blue eyes above the mask, the same chilling blank as the last time Steve had seen him.

Rumlow was holding a gun aimed at Steve, the other hand clasped tightly to James’ shoulder. He appeared to be leading him from the rear, but Steve knew the coward was using him as a shield. James was also holding a gun, his eyes traveling over the room from Natasha to Pierce and then to Steve, eyes finding the top of Steve’s head barely peeking up from behind the Secretary’s shoulder. His gaze lingered there for only a moment, and Steve could almost swear he saw a brief flicker of something, but it was gone so fast he was sure he’d imagined it. He kept his gun trained right on Steve, and with his award-winning sniper skills, he wouldn’t miss.

If they’d used those words again to turn him back into a Winter Soldier, Steve wasn’t sure they would all come out alive this time.

Both men stepped into the room, Jack Rollins and two other agents behind them, all armed with assault rifles. Rollins and one of the agents kept their aim at Natasha, the third agent on Steve. Steve dared to share a glance with Natasha, her eyes giving away her unease, but her body was coiled tight like a snake ready to strike.

“And just how do you think this is going to end?” Pierce asked, tilting his face towards Steve and Natasha. “You can’t expect to leave here alive.”

“Oh, we’re trending on Twitter,” Tony chirped into their ears. “Tell Pierce. He’ll like that.”

“You’re trending on Twitter,” Steve stated dutifully, satisfied when Pierce’s entire frame stiffened.

“We got a retweet from Matt Damon!” Tony went on excitedly. “He’s so dreamy.”

“Soldier,” Pierce snapped, and James obediently took a step forward, eyes on Pierce. Rumlow stayed close behind, keeping his body protected by James’. “We need to leave.”

“The cavalry’s here,” Tony said in his ear, and Steve carefully did not let out the sigh of relief that would have started from his toes. “Oh, Hill brought Rhodey. Heeeey, Rhodey.  _ Oooo _ , he is not going to be happy with me.”

Colonel James Rhodes, the War Machine, a legend in the military. Steve would’ve been fanboying over it had he not been otherwise distracted.

Steve shifted his stance, pulling Pierce closer and digging the gun into his skin, and said, maybe a little smugly, “You’re not going anywhere.”

The radio on Rumlow’s shoulder suddenly crackled to life:  _ “Alpha, this is Delta. We have multiple unknowns storming the building – ” _

The report of the gun was sudden and unexpected, Steve startling so hard his grip nearly faltered on his own gun. It had been one of the agents, someone Steve didn’t recognize but looked young; he might’ve spooked and fired prematurely, but it didn’t matter.

The room devolved into chaos. Rumlow ducked swiftly behind James, who also twisted away and crouched down. The agents started firing, Natasha having no choice but to fire back from behind the computer console. James withdrew another pistol from his left side, firing back without pause, his other weapon still trained right on Steve, who pulled Pierce close to him as he backed into the wall, flinching at the loud, rapid fire of bullets.

“What’s going on?” Tony demanded from his comm, but Steve didn’t have the wherewithal to respond. “Natasha! Steve! What’s happening?”

One of the agents went down, his head exploding in a spray of bright red blood. Steve shouted in surprise, at the gory display and at the thought that that could be Natasha. His heart leapt into his throat at the sight of his James right along with them, trying to – to  _ kill _ their friend, but maybe he still thought – maybe he didn’t understand – Natasha was armed in a room with Steve, and no one had explained it to him – 

“James, no! She’s a friend!” he yelled over the noise, and he hoped without time to explain, it would be enough. “She’s a friend!”

He heard Natasha cry out even over the reports, her body tumbling backwards and hitting the floor behind the computer station, falling out of sight. The room was suddenly, jarringly silent, save for Steve’s quick breaths, his entire frame trembling as he watched the computer console, waiting, silently pleading, but she didn’t get back up.

“Natasha! Steve!” Tony shouted, but Steve could barely hear him. “What’s going on? I can’t get close with backup moving in! Tell me – ”

Slowly, Steve reached up and pressed the comm, Tony’s voice disappearing from his ear. He looked back to the remaining agents, four of them including James, four weapons trained right on him. One of the agents carefully circled the computer console, nudging Natasha with his foot, but there was no response. He turned back to the group, shaking his head, but remained by her side, weapon pointed towards her.

Rumlow smiled, cold and sharklike. “Well, that was stupid.”

“I assume the data analyst can infer when the odds are not in his favor,” Pierce murmured, but when he shifted his stance, Steve jammed the gun into his neck hard, Pierce stilling immediately.

“Don’t,” Steve warned, with as much bravado as he could muster. “I made James a promise to find everyone involved in this and kill every single one of them. I’ve been accused of being a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.”

He looked right into James’ eyes, fierce and honest, willing for him to remember, to understand that they were in this together, until the end of the line. That Steve would burn down the world for him, and he understood now that it had always been that way, even if Steve had forgotten for a little while. But James didn’t so much as blink, eyes that same flat blue, as cold as ice.

“Soldier,” Pierce called, and James’ gaze shifted back to the Secretary. “As we practiced.”

There wasn’t even a hesitation. James removed his aim from Steve, and pressed the gun right to his own head.

Steve let out a startled breath. “James. James, no. No, no, no, no. You don’t want this. Don’t do this.”

Jesus. Jesus  _ Christ _ . If James – if he – his finger was right on the trigger. Steve knew how little amount of force needed to be applied, even by mistake, and that agent on the ground, his brain was everywhere, blood and bone and – 

“James,” he whispered, eyes stinging, but he didn’t know what else to do. He would have to let Pierce go, and Steve knew he was dead the moment he did. Knew that Hydra could win this one, with their leader intact, cunning and connected, maybe able to weasel his way out of this. What would Natasha do, for the greater good? What would she tell him? But even as he asked himself that, he knew the answer, but he also knew he didn’t have it in him to kill Pierce and watch James die by his own hand.

“So what’ll it be, Stevie?” Rumlow asked, placing a hand on James’ shoulder, thumb brushing over his neck, and there it was. James flinched, minutely, but it was there. He was there, and Steve nodded, taking a deep and shaky breath.

He looked right into James’ eye and said, “Do it.”

In a burst of movement, James struck Rumlow right in the nose with his elbow with a sickening crack, blood spurting from his nose. The gun in his other hand swung around, moving so fast Rollins never stood a chance. With one pull of the trigger, the agent dropped like a stack of bricks, the back of his head exploding as the bullet entered right between his eyes.

The agent beside Natasha raised his rifle, but James didn’t even have to shoot him. Natasha fired from the floor, hitting him right in his neck, arterial spray raining down over the computer station as he staggered backwards, firing randomly into the air before collapsing to the ground.

Rumlow raised his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. James swiftly brought his aim in and shot him right between the eyes. James didn’t lower his weapon right away, hand shaking as he stared with wide eyes at the fallen agent, his former lover, his betrayer. Finally, slowly, he lowered his gun, pulling his facemask off with a flourish and throwing it to the ground in disgust. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Natasha carefully clambered up from behind the computer station, using the desk to haul herself up to standing. There was a bullet wound in her right shoulder, right where the bullet proof vest left her vulnerable, the black fabric of her sleeve wet with blood still seeping from the wound. She regarded James warily, who was watching her just as carefully in turn, his shoulders heaving with the erratic breaths he was taking.

Gun still in hand, James turned to Pierce, the old man looking equally panicked as he was outraged at the turn of events. He kept his hands raised in surrender and Steve backed away a little as James slowly stepped closer, eyes trained on Pierce with a kind of ferocity Steve had never seen before. It was more frightening than the flat affect of the Winter Soldier, an unrestrained rage that was fit to blow at any tenuous moment.

“Soldier,” Pierce began, an almost warning tone to his voice.

“It’s James now,” he stated, voice hoarse and thready, and when he was close enough, he raised his weapon and placed it right between Pierce’s eyes, pressing the hot muzzle into his skin so Pierce winced.

“James,” Steve said, startled, but the other man didn’t even regard him. Steve looked to Natasha for some kind of guidance, but she remained leaning against the computer station, pressing her fingers to her wound and watching without expression.

“On your knees,” James commanded, in a voice Steve had never heard before. Pierce went down, stumbling under the force of James pressing the gun into his forehead, until he was looking up at James from the floor.

“So you’re a murderer now?” Pierce dared to ask, challenging.

“I don’t know,” James replied, stepping in closer, bearing down on Pierce, who shrank back in uncertainty. “Is that what you made me?”

James looked – he looked menacing, he looked frightening, he looked –  _ scared _ . He looked scared and lost, and Steve couldn’t imagine how terrifying it was to lose complete control of your mind and body, to be made to try to kill your loved ones and unable to stop. How terrifying it must’ve been for James to pretend to still be lost to the brainwashing in order to survive, letting them touch him and command him, doing their will while praying to find a way out of this. How terrifying, to see Steve in a room filled with armed agents while holding his ground, but still trusting Steve to understand that he was standing right there, pretending, because he believed in Steve that much.

“Go ahead then,” Pierce taunted, leaning up into the gun. “Pull the trigger.

Confidently, quickly, faster than Steve could even open his mouth to shout, James took one step back, recentered his aim, and promptly reared back and swung his pistol right into the side of Pierce’s head, a wounded sound escaping James’ throat. The force of the blow knocked the old man to the floor and sent him straight into unconsciousness.

James’ gun clattered to the ground, his knees giving out beneath him. Steve dropped his gun and scrambled for him, catching him in his arms and holding him tight, James’ face in the crook of Steve’s neck, his hands clutching Steve’s tac vest so tightly it audibly ripped. He was crying uncontrollably, sobbing with each breath, saying something, but Steve could barely understand him.

“Please tell me you’re okay,” James got a hold of himself long enough to say, leaning back so he could look into Steve’s face. His eyes were so blue, so clear, full of pain and fear and love and everything the Winter Soldier didn’t have, and Steve was so relieved as he brushed the tears away, unable to look away.

“I’m okay,” Steve assured him, as James traced trembling fingers over the bruising on Steve’s throat, setting him off into a fresh round of tears, breath catching in his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” James cried. “I didn’t – I couldn’t – I couldn’t – Steve, please, tell me you’re okay. Please. Please.”

“I’m okay,” Steve said again, folding him back into his arms, brushing his tangled hair back and rubbing his back soothingly. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine, okay? We’re fine, we’re fine, everyone’s fine.”

“I’m not fine,” Natasha deadpanned, as she slid into a sitting position in front of the computer desk with a grunt, a streak of blood trailing behind her. “Don’t worry about me, though. Just bleeding to death over here.” She took on an annoyed expression, reflected in her tone. “Also, Stark’s losing his shit. Did you turn off your comm?”

Steve hastily pressed the comm in his ear, Tony’s voice exploding into his head so loud Steve winced. “ – better tell me what the  _ fuck  _ is going on over there! Are you really bleeding to death? Who are you talking to? Is Steve there? Is he alive? I swear to – ”

“Tony!” Steve interrupted, as he carefully extricated himself from James, who sat back numbly against the wall, but Steve didn’t have time, he had to tend to Natasha. He ran over to her, sliding in to kneel beside her, pressing his hands to her wound. She was very pale. “Tony, Natasha’s been hit, but she’s going to make it.” He met her eye frantically. “Right?”

She rolled her eyes and nodded.

“And Barnes?” Tony asked. Steve glanced over to James, who was shaking all over, staring at Rumlow’s lifeless form with round eyes, undoubtedly in shock, but he was – “He’s – he’s here. He’s not injured. But we need a medic. For both of them.”

Just then, there were heavy footfalls from the hallway, and Steve had stupidly left his gun beside James. Natasha wasn’t as foolish, shakily raising her weapon in a sloppy grip, aiming at the doorway. James scrambled for his gun on the floor, kneeling up and aiming steady, finger on the trigger.

A group of agents appeared in the doorway wearing heavy tactical gear, black helmets, and facemasks, holding imposing assault rifles. Steve thought,  _ not again _ , and knew they wouldn’t make it out of here, not like this. He dared to steal a glance 

The leader paused, taking in the scene before lifting their facemask, revealing Maria Hill, and Steve let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding, his entire frame sagging from where he sat.

“Stand down,” she commanded gently, lowering her own weapon, and Natasha and James followed suit, visibly blessedly relieved. “The building’s secure,” Maria went on, still cautious, considerate. “You did it.”

Steve looked to James, who met his eye and started crying all over again, quietly this time. It was over. They’d succeeded. Though Steve knew it was far from done.

* * *

Tony had been right. Hydra was everywhere. Politicians, judges, police officers, military personnel – the list went on and on. It would take years to find them all, to bring them all to justice, and all they had was a small team of men and women they trusted: Director Maria Hill, Senior Intelligence Collection Analyst Steve Rogers, I.T. Consultant Tony Stark, and Military Liaison Colonel James Rhodes.

They brought in more eventually: Junior Intelligence Collection Analyst Sharon Carter, Field Officer Phil Coulson, and a couple of lawyers from Hell’s Kitchen that had made some noise taking down a renowned crime kingpin. And if Steve had happened to go on one single, horrible, humiliating date with one of those lawyers, well – neither man mentioned it, so he supposed it was water under the bridge.

Natasha’s past was too complicated to allow her to be involved, and she went underground anyway. She’d insisted she’d keep in touch, saying, “Can’t get rid of me that easy, Rogers,” with a slow wink and a wry grin, and he believed her.

So with their little team, they went to work, methodically taking down Hydra one member at a time. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

* * *

They found a Hydra cell in Harlem, laundering money in a nightclub and funneling it to operations overseas. Steve and Sharon built a business profile, containing all important information about the nightclub. They examined targets, documents, and transactions, along with establishing potential witnesses and compiling evidence. It took weeks to sort through the audit, determining how the business was legally and structurally organized, identifying key personnel and the money flow patterns of suspicious transactions, and locating bank accounts.

It paid off, when they were able to freeze the accounts in the United States and raid the nightclub, arresting the owners and all other employees involved, and while the money overseas was probably lost, they would take their victories while they could.

* * *

It was late, and Steve hadn’t been home in two days. Between supervising the raid, and the subsequent arrests and arraignments of all involved, he’d barely even been able to send a text to James, let alone call and check up on him.

Not that James ever answered the phone, or responded to any texts half the time.

They were living at Stark Tower, back in the same guest room they’d occupied the first time they’d been there. The Tower itself had been repaired and revamped with even tighter security bordering on paranoia, but all things considered, Steve was grateful. Tony refused any offer of rent, insisting his fee for his services as a consultant to what was left of S.H.I.E.L.D. counted as payment since it was Steve’s signature on the checks. It didn’t make a lick of sense, but Steve didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

When Steve entered the apartment, it was dark. He sighed as he dropped his keys onto the entryway table, wondering if he’d missed James before bed yet again. James spent a worrying amount of time sleeping, but Sam insisted it was normal for someone recovering from what Steve suspected was severe PTSD, depression, and anxiety, amongst God-knew-what-else, but James refused to see a doctor. After Zola, Steve couldn’t blame him, but he wasn’t sure how much longer James could go on like this.

If Steve were being honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on like this either. James barely ate, only showered once every few days – usually at Steve’s insistence – and was always irritable. They didn’t share a room anymore, but Steve could hear him at night, yelling out in his sleep, sometimes crying on and off for hours, but he never let Steve in his room. He only allowed him to knock on the door and call his name through it to wake him up when it got really bad, which was more often than not.

It was almost to the point that Steve was right back where he’d started: escaping his homelife at work, dreading coming home wondering what he’d find when he got there.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Steve asked in a low voice, the A.I. chiming quietly in response. “Is James sleeping?”

“Sergeant Barnes is on the balcony, Agent Rogers,” J.A.R.V.I.S. responded. “He is awake, and has been out there for quite some time. It is quite chilly out tonight. May I recommend some hot tea, and perhaps a hot meal?”

Steve knew a hint when he heard one. James wasn’t taking care of himself to the A.I.’s standards, and probably hadn’t eaten maybe since Steve had left. “Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S. I appreciate you looking after him.”

“My pleasure,” the A.I. replied. “I am quite used to it, minding Mr. Stark.”

He smiled ruefully, well aware of how much time Tony could spend in his lab working tirelessly on a project until he collapsed, forgetting to eat or drink or how to generally function. With that in mind, Steve stopped in the kitchen to boil some water on the stove, steeping some green tea for a little while before pouring it into an oversized mug that inexplicably read  _ Act like a lady, think like a boss. _ He’d deal with dinner later.

James was sitting in a lounge chair, one knee curled beneath him and the other pulled to his chest, an arm wrapped around it. With his other hand, he was holding a cigarette dangled between his fingertips. Steve watched him for just a moment as he took a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright orange for just a moment before he drew his hand away and blew out a long stream of smoke. The moonlight illuminated his form, gentle white light gilding his dark hair, sending his features into sharp relief.

He looked so small tucked into that chair, head bent forward, as if he were trying to make himself invisible. It didn’t help that he’d lost more weight, but he was still strong and lean, maybe able to maintain his physique due to whatever had been done to him in Afghanistan. While Steve was grateful he couldn’t waste away, it was still sad to think James didn’t even have the choice. 

Steve’s heart ached for him, for this beautiful, brave man that had been to Hell and back, and still managed to survive.

Pushing open the sliding glass door, Steve made sure to do it loudly and purposefully so James would know he was there. He turned at the sound, taking another drag from his cigarette before blowing it away from Steve.

“Hey,” Steve called quietly, coming to stand beside him. He nodded towards the empty chair. “Up for some company?”

James was quiet for a moment, then turned away, looking back out over the city. “Sure.”

“I brought you some tea,” he stated, setting the cup down on the little side table. James didn’t even acknowledge him. “How was your day?”

“It was a day,” he said with a shrug.

_ My day was great, thanks for asking, _ Steve thought after a moment, but didn’t say it. He didn’t want to start a fight. Instead, he asked, “Have you eaten dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have?”

James froze for a moment, caught out, then rolled his eyes to the sky. “I’m sure J.A.R.V.I.S. kept you updated.”

“Well,” Steve deadpanned, propping his chin on his fist and looking James right in the eye. “He did say you jerked off a bunch of times and danced in your underwear in the living room, but he didn’t mention anything about food.”

James narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, glaring, until he couldn’t fight the grin anymore. His lips twitched upwards as he turned away, hiding it behind the drag he took from his cigarette. Steve’s heart soared, hope bursting within as he saw it, the first smile James had offered since they’d moved in here.

“It was just the one time,” James shot back.

“Jerking off or dancing?”

“You gonna make me dinner or what?” James asked, tone challenging, as he turned back to Steve with his eyebrows raised. “There’s steaks in the fridge.”

“Sure, if you like well done steaks,” he lamented, because they both knew Steve couldn’t cook worth a damn.

“Well done?” James asked, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “More like a hockey puck. Well done would be an improvement.”

“You offering to help?” Steve asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

“Oh, God, I guess I could take time out of my busy day,” James sighed, pushing himself up to standing. “You’re making mashed potatoes.”

_ Gladly. Anything,  _ Steve thought.  _ Just keep talking to me. Keep being near me. _

“Fuck, fine,” he said instead, with a put upon groan, as he followed James inside the apartment, happy and relieved and full of too much hope for his own good.

* * *

Sitting on his kitchen table, looking as if it had been crumpled in a tight ball before being smoothed out flat, Steve found a postcard that had come in the mail that apparently James had gotten to first.

It was from Marseille, France, featuring a huge basilica on a hilltop called the Notre-Dame de la Guarde. It was large and imposing, overlooking the city. There was no signature, only a message in neat script:  _ Marseille could use some cleaning up, but the food was good. _

Several public officials were arrested the next week, after a USB drive filled with information linking them to Hydra had been anonymously mailed to one of the only clean government workers left.

James rolled his eyes as he sipped his coffee on the couch beside Steve, where they were watching the story unfold on the news. He was still hurt, but who could blame him?

* * *

Someone – some _ ones _ – were yelling. It was early on a Sunday morning, later than Steve usually slept, but he’d been up all night with James playing Monopoly. James had been in charge of the bank, which ended up being a mistake, because Steve hadn’t noticed that James was quietly accruing money despite the fact that he was losing miserably. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to keep the game going for much longer than it would have.

James had always been a sore loser.

Steve couldn’t be too upset, though. They’d spent plenty of nights just like that when they’d first started dating, playing Scrabble, chess, or poker. Risk was off limits, because Steve always won, which James attributed to an unfair advantage. Steve hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed it, just spending time with James, watching his face frown in concentration, the way he lit up when he won a round or scowled when he lost, how he crowed with laughter while talking shit, taking it as much as he could dish it.

“Did Steve put you up to this?” James yelled, presently. Steve jumped out of bed, stumbling over the covers and falling to the floor.

“No, man,” Sam replied, much more calmly. Steve paused, startled, cracking open the bedroom door just a fraction to hear better. What the hell was Sam doing in New York? Steve had just spoken to him on the phone yesterday, and he hadn’t said anything about making a trip up. “Steve has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, like he hasn’t been telling you everything that goes on here,” James shot back. “He’s got J.A.R.V.I.S. spying on me. Did you know that?”

“I’m…not sure who J.A.R.V.I.S. is,” Sam stated, voice lilted with confusion.

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent – ” the A.I. helpfully began, until James barked:  _ “Not now, J.A.R.V.I.S.!” _

“If Steve’s truly spying on you,” Sam said, “then maybe he’s got issues of his own to work through.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you too.”

“There’s nothing to worry about!” James retorted, voice rising again. “I’m fine! I don’t know how many other ways to say it!”

“Look,” Sam went on smoothly. “You might be fine. You might be coping. You might be working through it, and that’s great. But it never hurts to get a second opinion, or maybe just some more tools for your arsenal. I just wanted to give you a name in case that was something you were interested in.”

“Well, I’m  _ not _ interested,” James said, and Steve sighed with dejection, even if it’d been what he expected to hear. 

“I understand your reservations,” Sam said, referring to Zola but too tactful to say it outright. “But this guy has been working with recovering vets for over forty years. He specializes in POWs. I’m honored to have shadowed him when I was in school, and know a lot of vets who have benefited from his care.”

There was a heavy silence, so expectant Steve was afraid to breathe.

“I’m not saying you have to call him, or see him, or do anything you don’t want to do,” Sam continued, voice low and gentle, and James hadn’t said anything, but he hadn’t said no. “I just wanted to give you the name of somebody  _ I _ trust, in case you were looking for that kind of thing and didn’t know where to go. I’m just gonna leave his card right here, okay? No pressure.”

“Sure,” James conceded tiredly, followed by a brief silence before James asked gruffly, “You got somewhere to be, or you want some coffee?”

“Coffee’s great, man.”

Carefully, Steve opened the bedroom door, peeking his head out to see the two men standing right at the end of the hallway, both turning to him at the same time. “Is it safe to come out now?”

“Jury’s still out,” James muttered, moving past Sam to get into the kitchen.

Sam jerked his head towards the balcony, Steve nodding with a sigh before following the man outside. It was already a warm day, the sun creeping through the buildings and casting the city in bright yellow light. It was going to be a hot one.

“You really spying on him?” Sam immediately asked, not one to beat around the bush.

“No,” Steve told him, shaking his head as he gripped the railing with white knuckles. “Not really. I just ask J.A.R.V.I.S. where he is when I get home. J.A.R.V.S. kind of takes it upon himself to update me on other stuff, if he’s worried.”

“Okay, I still don’t know who this J.A.R.V.I.S is,” Sam said, and quickly held up his hand when Steve opened his mouth to explain, “but I don’t care. Those are  _ not  _ healthy boundaries. You need to talk to  _ James _ , Steve. Ask  _ him  _ how he’s doing, what he’s been up to.”

“I know, I know,” Steve stated, flushing hot with shame, eyes cast to the city so he wouldn’t have to see Sam’s disappointed face. “I won’t give you any excuses.”

“Good, because I don’t want them.”

“I’ll try harder, okay?” Steve snapped, then scrubbed his hands down his face. “Fuck.”

“That’s all anyone of us can do,” Sam stated, then clapped a hand to his shoulder. “You know I love you, bro.”

Steve smiled in spite of himself, side eyeing his friend. “I love you too, Sam.”

“Ugh,” James called from behind them, two coffees in his hands. “Can we be done now, please? The game’s on in two hours and I need to be in a more manlier state of mind for it. Also, I’d like to get some brunch.”

Sam grinned. “Nothing manlier than brunch.”

* * *

Steve found the business card later –  _ Charles Xavier, MD, PhD –  _ tossed haphazardly into the kitchen trash as he was throwing away his leftovers. He paused for a moment, heart sinking as he rapidly blinked away the stinging in his eyes. Glancing at James sitting on the couch flipping through channels, he debated on whether or not to take it out. In the end, he left it there, scraping his dinner off the plate and watching the card sink further and further into the garbage.

At two o’clock in the morning, he threw himself out of bed and quietly crept down the hall past James’ closed bedroom door, finding the rest of the apartment silent and dark. He used his cell phone to cast light into the kitchen trash, but couldn’t find the card no matter how hard he looked.

* * *

There was a senator in Pennsylvania rallying for weaponizing the military with state-of-the-art drones made by Hammer Industries. At first, Steve thought it was Tony’s rivalry with the CEO, Justin Hammer, that was fueling his insistence to investigate. It was probably mostly true, considering Tony spent all of his free time digging and digging until he made some kind of obscure connection between Senator Stern and Jasper Sitwell, another Hydra member that had already been arrested.

It still wasn’t enough for any type of conviction, and Maria Hill had to give it a hard pass. So of course, Tony took it upon himself to invite Hammer to his yearly Stark Expo to show off his new drones. Steve didn’t pay it any mind, chalking it up to pettiness and ego – until the drones attacked the audience, that was.

Zero fatalities, fifty injuries, and three arrests later, Steve was a little less reluctant to trust Tony’s judgement after that.

* * *

Steve was making an effort. He was coming home on time when he could, not allowing work that could wait until the following day to keep him late at the office. He was making dinner, sometimes with James’ help, and they would eat together while watching television or sitting outside on the balcony. 

He was talking to James more, backing off when the answers were short and gruff – which was more often than not. It had been awkward at first, trying to have conversations, and they’d all felt wooden and superficial, both men rusty at communicating with one another. Slowly, but surely, their postures became a little less tense, their tongues a little looser, their words evolving into something more substantial, something real.

There were good days and bad. Sometimes, James wasn’t up for company, obvious by his standoffish behavior, or when he’d stay holed up in his room. But that was okay too, because those days were becoming less and less frequent as James made more of an effort to be sociable, as Steve made more of an effort to be home.

Steve was a little later than usual today, getting stuck on a phone call with Washington explaining his budget request over and over again to a government official that didn’t even appear to be listening, but he still managed to make it home before sundown.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he asked, when he didn’t see James in the living room or out on the balcony, the A.I. chiming in response. “Is James – ?” He rolled his eyes at himself, then let out a deep breath. “Nevermind.”

_ Boundaries _ , he reminded himself, as he made his way down the hallway to James’ bedroom, but James didn’t appear to be home. Steve texted him, asking about dinner, then made enough for two when he didn’t get a response.

It’s not as if it was unusual for James to leave the apartment; at least, not lately. He’d been going out more and more, coming home with shopping bags or takeout, reacclimating himself with the outside world. It didn’t mean Steve still didn’t worry, but two hours later, he was  _ not  _ asking J.A.R.V.I.S. where James was, because James was a grown man and Steve needed to treat him like one, and Sam had said  _ boundaries _ . So Steve was watching television, and was definitely  _ not _ wrought with nerves or feeling like he had to throw up.

When the front door burst open and James stood there, gripping the frame with white knuckles, face pale and eyes haunted, looking hollowed out and raw, Steve stood up and reconsidered every choice he’d made since coming home that night.

“James,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice calm and level like Sam would’ve, trying not to panic and race over to him, and scoop him up in his arms, and lock the door and never let anyone in ever again. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing,” James replied, voice hoarse, then cleared his throat and shook his head. He closed the door behind him, coming over to the couch. He dropped himself down heavily at the edge of the seat, perching there and tense as if ready to bolt at any moment. Carefully, Steve followed suit, settling himself down with telegraphed movements, not wanting to startled the other man.

“Where have you been?” Steve asked quietly. 

James shook his head at first, staring at nothing, then said, “I went to see that guy.”

“What guy?” he asked, when James didn’t elaborate.

“The guy in Westchester,” James replied. “The doctor. Xavier. The one that Sam – the doctor?”

James looked at him, and Steve nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

“Just for a consultation,” he stated, gaze focused forward again, eyes unseeing.

“How did it – ?” Steve began, but should he ask? Did he have a right to ask? “I mean – ”

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” James blurted, before Steve could get in another word, and then he was standing, stumbling down the hallway as if he was drunk, his bedroom door closing hastily behind him.

Steve sat back on the couch, dumbfounded. He pulled out his cell phone, immediately texting Sam.

**Steve:** James just got back from xavier. Looked a mess. Went right to bed. Good or bad?

Sam texted back almost right away.

**Sam:** Good that he went

**Sam:** Can’t say much else only time will tell

**Sam:** Its a big step steve. You and james should both be proud

**Steve:** Should i see if hes ok?

**Sam:** What did we say about boundaries

**Steve:** YOU said

There was pointedly no reply.

**Steve:** Fine

**Sam:** Good man

Steve sent him back a series of violent, poop-filled emojis

* * *

Another postcard, this time from Italy, of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. There was a stick figure drawn on the front holding it up in black sharpie, short hair in bold red.  _ Pisa could use some cleaning up, but the food was good. Tell James I’m getting closer. _

A warehouse had gone up in flames a week before, files and files of unethical medical experiments on animals dumped onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. hard drives from an untraceable source.

* * *

“I want to have a dinner party,” James announced one day, as Steve was yawning into his morning coffee.

“A dinner party?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Yeah,” James replied, almost too casually, flipping through channels on the television. “I want to invite all our friends.”

“Our friends?” Steve repeated, dumbly.

James sighed, lowering the remove for a moment. “Steve, if you repeat what I say one more time.”

“I’m sorry,” he immediately said, setting his coffee onto the table and folding one leg beneath himself to face James. He tried to look just as nonchalant, putting on an air of interest and shielding his surprise. “When do you want to have it?”

“I don’t know, whenever you don’t have to work late,” James stated. “Isn’t Sunday usually a good day?”

“Sure,” Steve replied easily, then took a sip of coffee, trying to think of the best way to express his concerns. “Are you…sure…that this is…not going to be…too stressful? For you?”

James had the good grace not to bristle at Steve’s awkward attempt at couth. “I’ve been doing the shopping trips, you know? Going out to get something to eat instead of staying inside all the time. The Professor said that’s all well and good, but those are all on my own. He said I should consider engaging in more social activities. He wanted me to join a club or something, but…I’d rather start with people I know.”

“Okay,” Steve agreed easily, and now he was trying to hide his excitement, practically vibrating with it. “What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know,” James said again, eyes casting around as if searching for the answer in the air. “The Professor said I should make lists, so I can keep control over the situation.”

“Lists, got it.” Steve immediately jumped up, dutifully grabbing one of his notebooks from work and a pen before resuming his position on the couch. “Okay, go: what are we eating?”

James rolled his eyes at Steve’s enthusiasm, but he was fighting a smile. “What about pasta? That’s always easy.”

“We can do lots of bread, too,” Steve said, jotting it down.

“Well, wait,” James interjected. “How many people are we inviting? Do we have any friends?”

“I mean, we live with Tony and Pepper, so that’s two right there.”

“Four, including us.”

Which was how they found themselves two weeks later on a Sunday night with a dining room table full of their friends, Tony pouring an expensive whiskey he’d brought and Pepper laughing at something Sam had said, snorting adorably into her wine. Maria was rolling her eyes, Rhodes companionably arguing with Tony over football statistics, crowing over a player’s injury impeding the team’s ability to even hope for a win next week.

James was sweating in the kitchen, wiping his brow with a dishtowel at the stove as he kept a close eye on his pasta and looked flustered, cheeks flushed from the heat. Steve stood at the ready for anything James might need. He was worried this was too much too soon, too stressful, and that James was overwhelmed, that this was going to set back everything he’d worked so hard for, but when James looked at him, he smiled, a real smile, wide and happy, the first time in a long time, and Steve was happy too.

* * *

The Sphinx, quiet and majestic in the desert. An an accounting firm quietly funding laboratories in Afghanistan, a state-of-the-art program that would change the military front forever, raided by the state after someone had hacked their servers and dumped all of their files onto the internet.

_ Egypt could use some cleaning up, but the food was good. Almost there. _

* * *

James let out a breath, smiling in disbelief and relief at once, sitting out on the balcony with the wind caressing his hair. He was holding a glass of wine half empty, looking disheveled and beautiful, glowing in the moonlight.

“I think that went okay,” he stated, before taking a sip of wine. He looked to Steve, a hopeful expression on his face. “Right? That went okay, didn’t it?”

“More than okay,” Steve replied, nodding encouragingly. “Your sauce was really good. And, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but my bread cutting skills were phenomenal.”

“You were all right,” he commented with a sly grin. “I think your plating skills could use some work.”

“Excuse you, I made a great bread tower,” Steve protested. “It was a perfect triangle.”

“Yeah, it was,” James said, too fondly, and Steve felt warm all over. He took a sip of whiskey, savoring the bite.

“I think next time though – ” he began, but didn’t get to finish, as James leaned over and kissed him.

* * *

The mountains of Kabul, Afghanistan, overlooking the city. A hillside series of caverns blown to smithereens, with evidence of medical equipment, holding cells, experimentation, and military grade weapons. The postcard was scrawled hastily with smudged ink, blotted with what suspiciously looked like blood.

_ Tell him it’s done. _

* * *

Steve was so surprised, he couldn’t even react at first, just sat there with his mouth open like a dead fish. He felt James hesitate, ultimately pause, then begin to pull away, and thought,  _ Do something! You’re ruining this! _

He reached out so fast with his hands, intending to place them on either side of James’ face, and ultimately ended up with one of his fingers right in James’ eye in his haste.

_ “Shit,”  _ James hissed, pressing his fingers into his eye with a wince, and Steve just continued to sit there, horrified and panicking and James was – James was laughing, just a little bubble of laughter as he regarded Steve with a wry expression. “I guess that’s my fault for not warning you.”

“Oh, God,” Steve breathed, covering his mouth with his hands, in shock but also to hide his grin. “I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t – ” He attempted to sober himself up, lowering his hands and saying very seriously, lips wavering, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” James shot back, and Steve couldn’t hold back falling into a helpless fit of giggles.

“Really,” Steve tried, coughing in an attempt to control himself. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, jerk,” he stated, wiping a tear from his eye. “Just my ego’s bruised.”

“We could always try again?” Steve offered shyly, hopefully, and James smiled just a little bit, shy and hopeful too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed leaning forward slowly as he held his hands out to show he was harmless, as if trying to coax a wild animal. His heart was hammering in his chest, thrilled and scared all at once, Steve afraid to even breathe wrong. James met him halfway, grinning in amusement, until their lips met in a firm kiss. It was chaste, just closed mouths, but Steve could feel the significant weight of it, the emotion behind it. Tentative and hopeful, longing and a little bit desperate, and the relief – God, the sweet relief, like finally coming home.

James took both Steve’s hands still in the air and pressed them to the sides of his face, both men leaning into each other. They finally separated, leaning their foreheads against one another’s and breathing hard, Steve still holding on with James’ hands braceleting his wrists.

“I missed you,” James breathed into the small space between them, his breath warm and scented with wine. His eyes were closed tight, face pained. “Not just with this. With everything. The whole time. You gotta believe me, Steve. I always – I always wanted you. I always – ”

“I know,” Steve said, and he meant it, because he knew firsthand what it was like to realize too late every mistake you’d ever made. “But we’re here now, right? And you’re not – ” He had to swallow hard, past the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. “You’re not – James, you’re not going to – you won’t again – ”

He couldn’t even say it, what it had felt like to come home to an apartment absent of all of James’ things, without any warning. How stupid he had felt, when he hadn’t even realized it at first, until the next morning when he’d went to the closet to get dressed and had found all of James’ clothes missing. How panicked he’d been, heart thundering as he’d searched the rest of the apartment in a frenzy and finally noticed everything else that was missing, and what did that say about Steve? To not even know that your husband was gone from your life?

How impassive James had been, handing him those divorce papers. How calm and collected when he’d explained how this was going to play out, when Steve had been dying on the inside. How angry Steve had been later, much later, when he’d even thought to be angry, and the resentment he’d felt for the past year as James had moved on without him.

He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t survive it.

“I won’t,” James promised intensely, leaning back to look Steve right in the eye. “I remember. I remember everything now. I remember leaving you. I wanted – ” He broke off in an exasperated sigh. “This is the stupidest thing I’ll ever tell you, but I wanted you to come after me. I wanted to be worth it. And when you didn’t…” James shrugged, sad and bitter, hurt, eyes wet. “I thought I’d made the right choice.”

Steve barked out a laugh, shocked and amazed. “Do you know how many times I thought about going after you? How many times I wanted to call you, or find out where you were, and just beg for you to come home?”

Pressing a hand to his mouth, James visibly fought to keep his composure, until he finally let out a wet laugh, disbelieving. Voice thick, he said, “We’re the dumbest fucking people.”

“Match made in heaven,” Steve agreed wryly.

“We’re not doing that again, right?” he asked, very seriously. “We won’t – we aren’t – we won’t do that.”

“No,” Steve replied, with as much conviction as he could muster. He leaned forward and kissed James again, fierce and protective and a little bit angry as he nipped at James’ mouth, but soothed it with his tongue, forgiving. “We won’t.”

James sighed against his lips, nodding, then abruptly yawned. He jolted back, offering an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you had a big day,” Steve told him.

“Yeah, never working, cooking one dinner,” James replied, rolling his eyes. “I  _ should  _ be tired.”

“Hey,” Steve admonished, resting a hand on the nape of James’ neck, rubbing his thumb over his pulsepoint. “I’m proud of you.”

“Shut up,” he said, petulantly, then adorably tucked his chin into his chest. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” Steve urged, standing and holding out his hand. “Let’s go to bed.” James’ head whipped up at that, eyes round. “Not – I mean – you don’t have to – ”

“You rescinding your offer, Rogers?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye, coy and alluring in a way Steve could never hope to be.

“Never,” he replied, a little breathlessly, as James slipped his hand into Steve’s.

* * *

The light cut through the dark curtains of the open window, the glow of the city blanketing the room in soft beams. Steve could see enough not to have to turn on the light. He crossed the room and placed his phone on the nightstand, plugging in the charger before standing upright and turning only to come face to face with James. His heart thrilled at the proximity, stomach a bundle of nerves as James watched him with intense, dark eyes. It was so still, so quiet, he was afraid to breathe, waiting to see what James would do.

With one hand, James reached out, slowly but not hesitantly, cupping the side of Steve’s face with his large, warm hand and brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. Steve let out a breath at the touch, trembling with how hard he fought his own body’s yearning towards James, not wanting to move too fast too soon and ruin this tenuous moment between them.

James waited, expression questioning, seeking permission. Steve turned to brush a gentle kiss against his palm, reaching up to grip his wrist tightly, and he closed his eyes and nodded yes, yes,  _ yes. _

That was all it took for James to step closer, Steve doing the same, drawn to each other as if two magnets. Their lips met in a sweet, slick slide of lips and tongue, slow and indulgent. Steve gripped the front of James’ shirt, tugging him in, holding on so hard his fingers ached with it. James snaked his arm around Steve’s waist, pulling him even closer so Steve could feel the strong, hard planes of his body, his muscular thigh as it wedged itself between Steve’s legs, pressing against his steadily growing arousal.

Steve groaned into James’ mouth, rutting against him languorously. His fingers found the buttons of James’ shirt, who’d insisted on wearing something nice to the dinner party, looking sleek and sexy in his dark blue shirt and nice jeans. He parted from James as he slowly unbuttoned each button until his shirt was hanging open, taking a deep breath and stepping back. He wanted to savor this. After all, there was no rush; they had all the time in the world.

The fabric slipped from James’ shoulders with a whisper of a sound, pooling on the carpet around his feet. His shoulders were so strong, biceps firm, the swell of his pecs leading the eye to the peak of his dark nipples. The scars of his left arm were faded to faint pinks and whites, only serving as a testament to just how strong his James was, how brave. It heightened his desire for the man in front of him, heart soaring and blood running hot beneath his skin.

He couldn’t help but touch, running his hands over all that exposed stretch of skin, James warm and solid beneath his fingertips. In turn, James tugged at the hem of Steve’s shirt, pulling it up over his head and revealing his own small, wiry frame. The breeze from the open window caressed his body, breaking out his skin in gooseflesh. James rubbed his arms as if to warm him, hands big and sure, making Steve shiver.

They stepped close once again, James grasping the juncture of his neck and shoulder, thumb sliding up to tip his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. He opened his mouth for a kiss, but James only smiled, soft and inviting, before pressing his lips to Steve’s neck, traveling up behind his ear, Steve’s knees weakening at the touch.

Steve’s fingers traveled down the length of James’ torso, over the curves of his abdomen, down the V line of either side of his belly, until they found his belt. He slipped the leather from the buckle, unclasped the button, then slid James’ zipper down slowly, making sure to press against his hard-on and eliciting a hiss from James’ lips. He pushed down the heavy denim, taking his underwear down at the same time. His fingers lingered over James’ ass as he did so, palms flat against the perfect round globes on the way back up, gripping tight and pulling close.

James allowed it for just a moment before stepping out of his jeans and kicking them away. His own deft fingers made short work of Steve’s pants, pushing them down and traveling with them, his lips trailing down his neck, teeth scraping over his collarbone, tongue licking one pebbled nipple, over his belly and hip, a bite to the side of his thigh. Steve gripped James’ shoulders tightly, his cock jutting out right beside James’ face, thrusting towards him without even meaning to.

James looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, eyes big and blue framed by dark lashes, the light from the window illuminating the sharpness of his cheekbones, the masculine stubble on his jaw, the curves and planes of his back. Steve could barely breathe for how turned on he was at the sight of the man before him, his gorgeous, perfect James.

Slowly, agonizingly, James licked a stripe up the length of his cock, tonguing at the head and keeping eye contact all the while. His hands glided up the backs of Steve’s thighs, his broad grip firm and immovable, but there was nowhere else Steve would rather be. Then James leaned up and ducked his head, taking Steve in his mouth, warm wet suction enveloping his length. Steve sighed up into the air, running his fingers through James’ hair, holding on tight for purchase. Maybe too tight, but James only moaned, the vibration sending flames of pleasure licking up his spine.

He pulled off after a moment, parting with one lingering flick of his wicked tongue before standing. Steve rushed forward, pulling James in at the same time, pressing their lips together and tasting himself in James’ mouth. It spurred something possessive in him, something tender, as if it were a physical manifestation of the notion that James belonged to him once more, just as Steve belonged to James.

He wondered if it had always been that way; if they’d both just been too blinded by hurt and anger and ignorance to see it. Maybe they were always meant to end up here.

James slipped his hands behind Steve’s back, bracing him as he gently turned them and laid him on the bed, covering his body with his own. Steve was happily trapped beneath the length of hard muscle, warm and enveloped and protected. Their lips never parted as Steve scooted up the bed, James crawling to follow, straddling Steve’s hips and grinding their cocks together in delicious friction.

He came up closer, gripping the headboard, abdomen at Steve’s eye level, and Steve couldn’t help but claim a taste, licking up the grooves of muscle and biting at the tender flesh. James curled into him, biting his lip and breathing as if he was in pain, his ass coming down against Steve’s groin, Steve’s erection sliding between his crack. Steve knocked his head back against the headboard with a dull thud, hands gripping James’ hips and moving with him, pushing up against him, wanting.

“Steve,” James breathed, like a prayer, gasping. “Can you? Will you – ”

“Yes,” he replied, reaching up to tug James back down, mouths meeting firmly. He slipped his tongue past James’ lips, thrusting inside, claiming his mouth just as he intended to claim James’ body. James moaned and Steve swallowed the sweet sound. The other man abruptly pulled away, glancing around.

“Do we – ?” he began, staring down at Steve. He swallowed, visibly collecting himself. “Do we have condoms?”

“Uh,” Steve stammered, then felt his cheeks heating up, tucking his chin into his chest. “In the – in the nightstand. They aren’t mine! I swear,” he insisted, at James’ arch look. “I think Tony was…rooting for us, I guess. I don’t know.”

“He always said he was a genius,” James quipped, leaning over to pull open the drawer and reach inside. Steve ran his hand up his side, enjoying the long stretch of his torso, then James made a triumphant sound, brandishing a new box of condoms along with an unopened bottle of lubricant. “Guess he was right.”

“Let’s not talk about Tony in bed,” Steve pleaded. James grinned as he stole a kiss, before tumbling to the bed beside Steve, one leg still sprawled across Steve’s. He tore open the box of condoms first, taking one out and placing it on the bed before tossing the box to the floor. Then he opened the lubricant, the small safety seal joining the box on the floor.

Before he could do anything else, Steve placed his hands on James’, giving him pause.

“Are you sure?” Steve couldn’t help but ask, needing to hear his permission, his consent, because too many people had taken advantage of James, had hurt him, and Steve wasn’t going to be one of them.

James looked up, eyes very, very blue. He kissed Steve then, sweet and sure. “I’m sure, baby. Never been sure about anything but you.”

Steve was helpless to the smile on his lips, or the surge of affection that blossomed in his chest. Their lips met in another kiss, languid and possessive, Steve’s hand gripping at James’ hip, his other hand trapped beneath him. He heard the cap of the lubricant snap open, and then long, strong fingers wrapped themselves around his cock in a firm grip. He gasped into James’ mouth, thrusting up into James’ slick hand, who snaked his other arm beneath Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in close and gripping his shoulder, biting at Steve’s bottom lip and giving it a gentle tug.

The pleasure was building too quickly, Steve fighting to tamp down the need coiling in his gut. He wanted James so much, to be buried inside of him, more than he wanted the instant gratification of coming right now. Fingers twining through James’ hair, he pulled away with a sharp exhale only to dive right back in, dizzy with his own desire. He pulled back again, pressing their foreheads together and reaching down to still James’ hand.

“I need to be inside you,” he breathed into the space between them. “God, James, I want you so bad.”

James dutifully rolled away and onto his stomach, folding his arms beneath his head and offering Steve a smoldering look, legs slightly parted in invitation. “Come on, Stevie. Do it.”

God, but he was so beautiful, all long, lean lines, curves, and hard planes. Steve moved closer, reverently smoothing his hand over all that warm skin, over his shoulders and down his back, thrilling when James arched his spine into the touch. Down the dip of his back and up over the swell of his firm ass, finding the coarse hairs over the strong curve of the back of his thigh. Back up, his hand traveled, dipping between his legs, the sides of his fingers caressing James’ balls and up between the crack of his ass. James shivered, sliding his legs open further, pressing his body against Steve’s hand, panting, aching for it.

Steve grabbed the lubricant, flipping the cap open and pouring some onto his fingers. He pressed himself flush to James side, mouthing at his shoulder as he slipped his fingers between his cheeks, finding the tight furl of his hole. James moaned as Steve traced over his asshole, rubbing and teasing before slipping the tip of one finger inside. He was so tight, body trembling; Steve whispered soothing sentiments into his skin, lips trailing up his neck and to his ear, nibbling and sucking and licking as he slid his finger in and out.

Soon, James was moving back against him, eager for more. Steve slipped in another finger, gentle and careful, wanting to make this good for James despite how achingly hard he was, his dick sliding against James’ hip in anticipation, smearing precome all over his skin. James turned his head, lips seeking, and Steve gladly obliged him, mouths meeting in a clumsy kiss.

“Steve,” James breathed into his mouth, a question without asking, and Steve couldn’t deny him any longer. He sat back on his knees and found the condom on the bed, rolling it down over his erection and slicking himself up with more lubricant. James reached for him blindly, a little desperately. “Steve?”

He took James’ hand and grasped it tightly, James holding on just as fast. Shifting himself to drape over James’ body, he covered it with his own, shielding him, keeping him safe and warm beneath him.

“I’m here,” Steve promised, because he wasn’t much, slight and unassuming, but what he lacked in size and strength he made up for in spirit, in determination, in tenacity, and he’d allowed James to be taken from him once, to be hurt and beaten down and nearly broken, and he was never going to let that happen again.

“Steve, please,” James pleaded. 

“Shh,” he murmured into James’ skin, lining himself up with one hand on his erection. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He pressed in, beyond the tight ring of muscle and into that velvety smooth heat, James’ body clutching around him and pulling him in. James tipped his head back, groaning with the intrusion, his face a mix of agony and rapture. Steve stilled, waiting for James to lose some of the tension in his body, breathing through his instinct to thrust, to take, balls tight and aching. Finally, James let out a deep and shuddering breath, spine relaxing as he spread his legs a little wider in permission.

They moved together, Steve pushing in and James shifting back, meeting him thrust for thrust. James felt incredible beneath him, around him, strong and fierce yet yielding, allowing himself to be taken, giving this gift to Steve. He understood how precious it was, how significant, how much trust and faith it took James to offer himself up like this, to make himself vulnerable after how many had taken advantage.

Steve had been one of those men once too, careless with James’ heart, believing that he would always be there to come home to, to apologize to. And Steve understood, eyes open and heart overflowing, that this was also absolution, this was the closing of one door and the opening of another, a promise and a wish all at once.

“James,” Steve said, voice cracking with emotion as he gripped James’ hand tight, wrapping his arm around James’ chest to keep him close. “Oh, James, you feel so good.”

James moaned, high pitched and urgent, sweat beading on his neck and forehead, hair sticking to the sides of his face with it.

“Tell me,” he urged, seeking affirmation, as eager and needy as he’d always been during sex, and Steve still yearned to give it to him, thrilled at the power he had to deliver what his lover needed. Still the same, they were still the same, it was just the same as it had always been and yet insurmountably brand new, both men born again and risen from the ashes.

“You’re so good,” Steve assured him, grinding his hips in, cock rubbing right over James’ prostate. “You’re so good, James, you’re so good. You’re incredible. You’re mine.”

_ “Yes,” _ James breathed, then moaned louder, ass clenching tighter, and Steve knew he was getting close. Shifting back, James got up on his hands and knees, Steve smoothly moving with him, releasing James’ hand only when it was no longer possible to hold it. “Say it again – say it – say it again.”

“You’re mine, James,” he vowed, voice as hard as steel as he grasped James’ hips with a bruising grip, pulling him back onto his dick as he snapped his hips forward, powerful and possessive. “No one’s ever taking you from me again. You’re mine. Always. Forever.”

Snaking a hand between his legs, James jerked himself furiously as Steve drilled into him, Steve’s thrusts becoming uncoordinated and erratic with his passion. He could feel his orgasm building, a low heat in his gut that grew and grew until it was all he could do to hold on.

For one raw moment, James stilled beneath him, every muscle taught, clenching so tight around Steve it was almost painful. Then, with a cry that sounded as if it was torn from him, James came beautifully beneath Steve, shaking apart with it as he shot all over the bed and his own hand. Steve thrust frantically, chasing his own pleasure, getting closer and closer, higher and higher, balancing on the edge of orgasm until he found himself tumbling right over the precipice, coming so hard his vision grayed out, tunneling only to the hot, tight channel of James’ body taking his seed.

James collapsed beneath Steve, who crumpled to the bed with him, just laying on top of him and breathing in the space between his shoulderblades. When he finally caught his breath and collected most of his brain cells, he carefully grasped the condom around himself and pulled out gently, James grunting softly beneath him.

Steve disposed of the condom, tying it off and tossing it to the floor. He kicked the covers down to take care of the wet spot, James moving amenably, then laid back down. James came in close, flush to his overheated body. Steve gladly accepted the touch, James resting his head on Steve’s belly and wrapping both arms around his waist. Steve carded his fingers through James’ hair, the tips slick with sweat, twisting strands around his fingers absently.

They didn’t speak, but the atmosphere in the room wasn’t oppressive or uncomfortable. It was calming and quiet, soothing. Steve closed his eyes, allowing himself to absorb every sound, every touch, every emotion. James’ warm body curled around him, soft hair in his hand, overstuffed pillows beneath his head, the luxurious mattress at his back. The breeze gently drifting through the window and caressing his body with cooling relief, cars and sirens and voices filtering in from the streets below. 

The fullness in his heart, the joy and relief. The love he felt for the man beside him, the strongest, bravest, most gorgeous man he’d ever met, who somehow, inexplicably, had chosen Steve. He was lucky, he was thankful, he was blessed, and he would never forget it again. And he’d be damned if James didn’t know how much he was appreciated every single day from this point forward.

“James,” he blurted, shaking him urgently, needing to tell James right this moment how much he meant to him, to make sure he knew because one never knew what tomorrow would bring.

“What?” James grumbled, sitting up a little to rest on one elbow, squinting at Steve sleepily. “What is it?”

“I love you,” he stated, very seriously. “I just…wanted to make sure you knew that.”

James blinked at him for a moment, before rolling his eyes and settling back down. “I thought that was obvious from the way you  _ jumped out of a helicopter through a window _ for me. Which I’m  _ still _ not happy about, by the way.”

“That was really fun,” Steve admitted with a sheepish smile, then quickly sobered as James whipped his head up to level him with a stare. “But I promise not to do it again.”

“Better not,” he muttered, and it was quiet again. There was a kiss to Steve’s bare belly, gentle and sure, before James snuggled in closer. “I love you too. Since we’re all saying it.”

“Such a romantic,” Steve murmured fondly, closing his eyes.

James’ hand snaked beneath the covers and found his, squeezing his fingers briefly. “’Til the end of the line?”

“’Til the end of the line,” Steve assured him, and he grinned, was helpless to it, even as he felt the clutches of sleeping pulling him down, down, down.

* * *

On the refrigerator, held in place by a magnet shaped like a watermelon that had come with the apartment, Steve found a postcard that James must’ve hung there after fetching the mail. It was of the beaches of St. Barts, luxe and lavish with bright blue water and white sand, palm trees and lush green foliage. On the back in Natasha’s neat script was a message.

_ St. Barts doesn’t need any cleaning up, and the food is great. _

He imagined her stretched luxuriously on a beach chair, painted toes in the sand and a colorful cocktail in her hand punctuated with a tiny umbrella, and he smiled.

* * *

END.


End file.
